


Various Brad/Ray ficlets

by jmcbks



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcbks/pseuds/jmcbks
Summary: Originally posted at Live Journal, 2010-12 at we_pimpin and other GK -fic comms.  Not edited or updated.





	1. The Relative Cost of an iThing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray really wants an iPad, despite Brad's disgust for all Jobs-related technology.

Ray wants an iThing, despite Brad's vocal scorn of all things Jobs-related.

He's normally content to let Brad make the decisions about his consumer electronics, aside from his radio and deejay equipment (because you know someone with pimp glasses like his and an encyclopedic knowledge of 90s and early 00s pop music would have that shit lying around). Brad turned his crappy old Dell into a fucking high-grade computational machine that bears almost no resemblance to its original incarnation but for the old tower, what with the monitors, add-ons and peripherals it now boasts. (It really only needed to be defragged, a memory upgrade, a new word processing program and a less spastic printer, but, well, Brad.)

Ray might once have mentioned something about thinking about maybe considering the outside possibility of getting an iPod a couple of years ago -- just for use while running or working out. He hasn't forgotten Brad's near-apoplectic rant. First about Apple's proprietary, closed system bullshit and then-DRM; its near worship by computer-using idiots who obviously were neophytes succumbing to looks rather than function; and its dumbass, egomaniacal founder whose name Brad refuses to speak. It was better than his OIF-spew about dickless, gunless officer POGs praying to a non-existent god. And it was followed by a lecture on the detrimental effects of earbuds and music at high volume on a runner's situational awareness. Which, Brad said musingly, was only to be expected of a whiskey tango trailer park reject like Ray, who apparently did not get his brains back when he left the Corps.

So Ray let it slide.

An iPhone? Well, he didn't bring it up, in part because AT&T's coverage in Cali sucks donkey balls and is as defective as Encino Man's deductive reasoning skills. Plus he figured that Brad would be interested in the rumored Android OS coming for smartphones coming from non-iDiot companies. And eventually they both upgraded to Droids. Which, okay, it works just fine, NSA geeks love it, which means it made Brad practically orgasmic at the Verizon Store. ("Dude, seriously, should I ask if they have a backroom for you two to be alone? I'm feeling a little threatened, Bradley, because you're looking at that piece of glass and plastic and chrome the way you usually look at me after a six month tour in the Middle East.") And Ray was happy with his Droid phone, which he named Avril for obvious reasons.

But then Nate visited a few months ago, bringing his brand, spanking new iPad and using it for work and web-surfing, snickering and rolling his eyes at Brad's snark about his common sense being corrupted by the liberal, dick-suck circle-jerk of policy wonks he'd surrounded himself with in Washington.

Ray really wants an iPad. He doesn't want to cause Brad to have an aneurysm, but, homes, the heart wants what the heart wants, as some neurotic, child-molesting freak said a few years back. It's so SHINY and SPARKLY. Ray would call his Jasmin (also for obvious reasons). Portable internet! Portable PORN!

Ray wonders if it would be cheating on Brad's programmatic purity if he got an iPad and just used it at work and school, never letting it cross their communal threshold. Then he reconsiders -- shiny, sparkly, portable PORN! Plus whatever other useful things it might be able to do, like downloading shit in a font that won't blind him, like recipes (and porn) and books (and porn), plus YouTube (and porn).

How many blowjobs will it take for Brad to forgive him for buying Jasmin and bringing her home fait accompli?


	2. Scenes from a life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brad/Ray domestic fluff

It's not that Brad's incapable of laughter or appreciating a good joke. He loves The Daily Show, and has been known to enjoy the comedy of Chris Rock, Denis Leary, and Dennis Miller. Although he does think that Miller's foray into NFL commentary was unfortunate. His Iceman persona grew out of BRC and has stood him in good stead. Mountain climbers and idiots with egos larger than their brains steer clear of him, and he gets less shit than he used to. The only downside is that he's had to cultivate a demeanor that is rather humorless and a bit more stoic than he would be naturally. This isn't a problem, really, until Ray Person becomes his RTO.

Their first introduction does not go well, since Ray spouts some bullshit about Viking pillagers and Hebrew deities. They spend their first week in an atmosphere of frigid disapproval and constant babble: Brad’s silence challenged by Ray’s unending chatter, which Brad first takes to be the sign of a lack of confidence and some sort of retardation that the recruiters missed. But after a week of Ray’s monologues accompanying perfect performance, Brad has to re-evaluate; Ray’s a Recon Marine, which means he can’t be too retarded. And his babble, which on the surface sounds like utter bullshit, actually has a perverse sort of intelligence and humor about it.

Once he recognizes the humor, Brad has to work to not crack a smile or laugh until his ribs ache. Some days when he goes home, his cheeks literally ache from where he’s bitten them to keep from grinning. It worsens as they become friends and then more than friends. Ray’s mouth never stops moving. How he manages to drive a humvee while keeping the radio semi-useful and also while talking about everything under the fucking sun is a complete mystery to Brad, but he does it.

And Ray brings that same approach to their home life too, after he leaves the Corps and purportedly gets his brains back. Work, school, home, busy all the time, but somehow always *there*, with his rant of the moment making Brad’s ache from laughter. His chatter is soundtrack of Brad’s life, and Brad’s not entirely sure how it happened. He’s also not entirely thrilled by this realization, as he stares at the neatly stacked meals Ray organizes for him before heading off to Nevada to help his mom pack up and move in with her sister. He’s sheepishly comforted by the fact that Ray did this for him – he’s a grown up, he can survive on his own a week without starving or encountering some other disaster beyond his management but he can still appreciate being taken care of sometimes. Even so, Ray’s thoughtfulness isn’t cheering Brad up right now; he would never admit it, but he feels mopey and a little let down because the house is silent and there’s no one ranting about the most recent malapropism from the boss or stupidity from local politicians. When had he become so accustomed to Ray’s chatter that it was like comforting white noise? He thinks maybe it’s a sign of mental illness that he misses it when it’s not there. Still, he pulls out his phone and prepares to dial Ray, so Ray can complain to him about the retardation of the moving company or the idiot realtor handling the sale of his mom’s house.

Before the call connects, though, the front door opens up and a voice yells, “Daddy’s back, Colbert! Since you’re home before me, you’re wife tonight – you’d better have dinner cooking and my martini waiting!”

Suddenly Brad’s sulky mood is gone. Squashing the smile that wants to bloom on his face, Brad turns to Ray, who’s now hovering in the kitchen doorway, and announces, “Corporal, your stint in a backwoods, red state, whiskey tango trailer park-populated dot on the map must have confused you. Daddy’s not back; he’s been here all along. Mommy’s home, and it’s time for grown up games. Bedroom. Now.”

With a smirk, Ray complies. One thing Brad appreciates is that as infuriating as Ray’s mouth can be, he has always followed Brad’s orders.

~~~~~~

 

Ray likes to cook. And to the surprise of nearly everyone who has tried his food (mostly people who were also subject to his MRE cooking attempts), he's a pretty fucking awesome cook, even if he says so himself. (Ray does not believing in hiding his light under a bushel. He is a rockstar in the kitchen. Or maybe a mad scientist. Either way, he rocks the antique Magic Chef 6000 stove Brad restored for him. Brad's cooking skills extend to brewing coffee and opening tins, but he appreciates Ray's skills, even as he likens him to the Swedish Chef muppet in his culinary madness.)

Growing up, he never did anything in the kitchen except the dinner dishes and the occasional nuke of leftovers according to his mom's exact instructions. Her very exact instructions, as his experiments blowing shit up in the microwave resulted in strict rules about its operation. But living on camp chow and MREs in Afghanistan and Iraq makes Ray appreciate good, fresh food. On his first trip to the grocery store after OIF, Ray is boggled by the produce section of Albertsons -- so much fresh freaking food, why aren't people buying that shit? Don't they realize it is gold?

Ray's first menu is meant to be his mom's standard pot roast and vegetables with garlic cheddar mashed potatoes. How hard could it be? Ray remembers his mom just sort of tossing everything together casually as she did other things around the house. It...does not turn out as successfully as he hoped. Brad, who is not the most choosy of eaters, pushes the food around his plate. Ray looks at the charred meat, mushy veg and grainy mash. "Homes, I followed Mom's directions exactly. I don't know what happened." Brad just grins, then gets up and dumps both their plates in the trash. After ordering pizza for delivery, he gives Ray a noogie and tells him it was at least better than all those peanut butter MREs.

Ray is not daunted by his first failure in the kitchen. No goddamn member of the plant kingdom or lesser member of the animal kingdom is going to defeat Ray Person! He is a fucking Recon Marine, he can do this! It took untold hours on the firing range to become as awesome on his SAW as he is; he'll devote the same attention to detail and persistence to cooking: eventually cooking will be his bitch. (Ray may have triumphantly crowed something like that to Brad, who snorted and said, “Yes, Ray, of course, Ray, in the meantime, pass me the carry out menu for the Thai place.”)

Gradually Ray does make cooking his bitch. He'll never be a chef along the likes of Ferran Adrià (molecular gastronomy? what the fuck is that? has the man ever fed hungry Marines?) but he rocks the Weber grill and makes Italian food that even a Roman would love. Ray's best dish is maybe butternut squash and sausage ravioli. It takes a few attempts to get the pasta just right. He may also need to threaten his kitchen equipment: "I am a Recon Marine; I can totally make this shit; this two bit piece of crap pasta roller will not defeat me. And if it doesn't straighten the fuck up, I will beat it to death with a rolling pin, which I will then use to make the ravioli."

Brad hates it when Ray wears his "Kiss the Cook" apron at the periodic neighborhood block parties and Bravo Two barbeques. Because people take the invitations at face value. There's just something about Ray that invites affection, maybe his outrageous demeanor, or the fact that he flirts with absolutely everyone, male and female, of all ages and marital status. Brad would much prefer that Ray wore that one only at home...while wearing nothing else.

But really, Ray's kitchen calling is baking, sweet or savory. He starts with boxed mixes -- because, dude, those instructions are written for Trombley-like levels of idiocy. Anyone can bake that shit. It's an easy start to his kitchen endeavors. Then he plays with them a little, using the base to build better desserts. But he abandons boxed mixes forever after reading the ingredient list: "What the fuck? I don't know what half this mess is! It cannot be good for me or the Iceman! It'll probably make my hair fall out or give me cancer, or maybe cause you to have droopy dick in middle age, Brad. We can't have that shit happening!" So Ray gets his hands on a copy of the Better Homes and Gardens Complete Book of Baking, which becomes his gateway drug.

Ray is just figuring out the baking-from-scratch deal when Brad is deployed for the first time without his Ray-Ray. It is harder than either of them expected, although Brad doesn't have as much time to brood about it, being in theater. When he returns, he finds an entire freezer of frozen treats, plus a kitchen full of new gadgets and cookbooks, including Rose Levy Beranbaum's Cake and Pastry Bibles. And also, a small roll around Ray's middle that merits a great deal of pinching and teasing, followed by an increase in Ray's PT.

At a Colbert family picnic to celebrate Brad's return, Ray and his cooking are the actual stars, especially the berry tart. As they chat on the drive home (sadly, they had to drive Ray's truck rather than Brad's bike because of the food they contributed to the picnic), Brad says reminiscently, "Today reminded me of a party we had when I was a kid. After raking the carpet, Mom gave me some of these amazing sort of anise-flavored snickerdoodle kind of things. Bubbe made them, I think, and I've never had any cookies quite as good."

Well, Ray has eaten Bubbe Colbert's cooking, and all he can say is that maybe she was better at it when she was younger and had better vision? But he recognizes Brad's implied taunt and grins, saying, "Oh, no, you didn't, Bradley. Was that a challenge? I think it was! It is ON!" And now Ray's on a quest for the perfect not-quite-a-snickerdoodle cookie.

Brad's out on the firing range when an idiot PFC runs up with a message: Pick me up at Tri-City after work. Ray. Brad's first instinct is to go now, but the message says after work, implying that it isn't such an emergency, despite the fact that Ray is asking to be picked up at a hospital. He gets liberty couple hours early and heads downtown, finding Ray slumped in the ER waiting room with a cold compress held to his cheek.

As soon as he sees Brad, Ray drops the compress. "Fucking neighborhood kids and their skateboards!"

"Ray, you've been known to steal their skateboards for your own use. What can they possibly have done? And what is wrong with your face?"

"On my way back from the mailbox, that fucking juvenile delinquent three houses down ran right into me! I was walking along, reading the mail-"

"Ray, did you open this month's Playboy and get distracted, losing what little situational awareness you may have retained once you abandoned the Marines?"

Ray's mouth shapes words but nothing comes out for a moment. "And my cookies got schwacked! They burnt while I was dazed and down on the sidewalk." Ray shakes his head mournfully, then heads out toward Brad's bike, leaving Brad to snicker and then trail after him.

~~~~~~

 

Ray needs a copy of his transcript. But the registrar won't release one til he clears his bill. What bill? They can't tell how much or what for, just that there's a balance due. Over to the bursar's office. An unpaid fine? For what? All the hot girl behind the window can tell him is that it's a library charge. So Ray stomps over to the other side of campus to the library, to learn it's for a 2 year overdue fine for a book he's pretty sure he returned. Ray drags the desk clerk to the 5th floor and the Greek mythology section. And there the damn book is, sitting on the shelf. (The wrong damn shelf, because apparently none of the work study library aides know the alphabet or how to count, but still, isn't there usually a shelf read each semester?)

There are someone else's notes in it, plus a random Starbucks receipt from this past March, so clearly it's been either in the library and mis-shelved for a while or in someone else's possession.

Back downstairs to the admin office, where they promise to clear the fine. But Ray knows better: he's not leaving until it's done. The ladies in the admin office look a little scared of him, and hurry it through to get rid of him. (This hurts Ray's feelings, because he is on his best behavior with them, doesn't even swear or complain about the incompetence of the other library staff. He tries to flirt with one lady who looks like Grandma Arlene, but she scuttles away as quickly as she can. Is it the tattoos? Or his general manic state? He drank a little too much coffee this morning.)

So he gets a statement from the library with the cleared record and hikes back to the bursar's office. And it takes some charm on his part, plus maybe the promise of sexual favors (which Brad won't appreciate sharing) to get another cute work study girl to update his record while he waits.

Finally! Back to the registrar to get the damn transcript to show he finished all his classes and can be reimbursed his tuition. (Ray's got plans for that money. It involves him, Brad, and all the Mai Tais they can drink at the swim up bar at the St Regis on Kauai.)

Brad's surprised Ray's not home when he gets there, and is even more surprised to get a call from campus security asking him to come get Ray...please.

After bidding his "jailers" fond farewell ("Brad, I keep telling you, NASCAR is the universal language!"), Ray accompanies Brad to his truck. After a heavy, expectant silence, Ray bursts out with it.

"You would not believe the layers of retardation! All I wanted was a fucking transcript! And it took three hours, four lines, and being detained by fake cops! And I still didn't get it! Because the idiots in charge of the registrar's office close at 3:30 on Mondays. What the fuck?!? Are my taxes and tuition paying for cushy bankers' hours?"

"Ray, am I to understand that in your spastic, misguided attempt to get your transcript, you verbally harassed a campus employee until they called the police?"

Um, well, yes. Not everyone appreciates Ray's mouth or his persistence as much as Brad does.

"Did you at least get the transcript?"

Silence from Ray, then "No. Those incompetent, academic versions of officer POGs still wouldn't print it out! I could see they were there working and the computers were still up, but they were like the Casey Kasem of transcripts! I would have to make do because it was after hours! Come back tomorrow? Hell to the no!"

"Ray, you could've avoided this whole mess of you had let me hack their system last night."

 

~~~~~~

 

Brad’s first attempt to teach Ray to surf, early in their transition from work to friends to whatever the fuck they are now (Brad thinks “partners”, “boyfriend” and “significant other” are dumb labels and hasn’t found one that really encompasses him and Ray), does not end well. How the hell Ray nearly drowns – he is a Recon Marine, drown-proofed for fuck’s sake – is beyond Brad. It culminates in a trip to the ER because of a concussion and serious sand and rock burn on Ray’s face and shoulder after a spectacular wipeout. On the ride home, while Brad drives the speed limit (unheard of!) and is careful not to hit any potholes or turn or change lanes abruptly, Ray tells Brad that he’d appreciate Brad just gutting him with his Ka-Bar if he really wants to him dead, no more pussy-footing around with attempts to drown him or gag him to death on a mix of salt water and sand. After that, Brad surfs while Ray swims or sunbathes, basking in the fact that the burnished sun god everyone on the beach is ogling will be going home with him.

Brad has never been a huge fan of professional sporting events. He doesn’t object to them on principle, it’s more a philosophical issue: he’d rather be playing than watching. His favorite participatory sports are mountain climbing, diving, hiking and surfing, all physically demanding activities that he can do with his Marine brothers or on his own. When he’s invited to watch the game (whatever game) at Poke’s house or at Pappy’s, he goes to be social. Brad’s not impressed by the NBA or WBA. American football? Eh, what a bunch of wusses, with the constant breaks and TV time outs. Hell, some of them even play inside a dome, what’s up with that? Major League Baseball is marginally better, but still pretty slow. Hockey, well, Brad likes the speed of the puck on the ice, and the propensity for violence and bench clearing brawls make it tolerable but not a favorite. Tennis, now that is a surprise, because it looks all fruity with its white bread outfits and handshakes at the net, but physically it kicks his ass when he tries it once (under duress with his sister for a charity event). The stop/start, the lateral motion, the footwork, the hand-eye coordination, and timing are ridiculously intense. And the geometry of it, the angles of the shots, the spin of the ball, they all require much more thought and planning than he anticipates. Brad could see himself learning to love the sport if he had the time to devote to playing well and following the professional circuit.

Auto racing? Brad loves going fast, but in no way is driving a sport. Ray loves NASCAR though, so he sometimes gets stuck with it playing on the big screen in the den. Brad doesn’t really get it – look, another left turn! Oh, wait, here comes another left turn! He’s perfectly happy to leave his NASCAR exposure to Sundays in the living room, but Ray bribes him with a pan of cherry walnut dark chocolate chunk all-edge brownies followed by a blow job that may have made Brad’s eyes cross and his toes curl. Those two things alone might have done it, but Ray also throws in a promise to once again attempt to learn to surf.

Brad takes quick advantage of the surfing promise and drags Ray with him to the beach the very next weekend. It turns out better than the first lesson, maybe because they know and trust each other more now. Ray will never be as comfortable on a board as Brad, but he can at least stand up and ride a mid-sized wave into shore. On high surf days, he mostly hangs out in the shallows and on shore, while Brad maybe shows off a little when he knows Ray’s watching. (Which he does. Closely. Because Brad rocks board shorts. And skin-tight wet suits.)

Ray’s no fool: as soon as the bargain is struck, he finagles tickets – including pre-race infield passes and a DEI garage tour – to Phoenix International Speedway, the closest upcoming NASCAR race. When race weekend finally arrives, they make it a road trip on Brad’s bike, figuring they’ll watch the race and poke around Phoenix and its environs for a couple days, maybe go hiking on Camelback Mountain. At the track, Brad gets to examine finely tuned machines and admire immaculate garage set-ups while talking to gear heads, which is always a happy thing. There are a surprising number of women in the crowd, and the whole atmosphere is kind of festival or carnival-like. The race itself – eh – still not his favorite but better live than on TV, easier to see the jockeying for position and strategy of the race. Brad is loath to admit it, but Ray’s “day at the races” isn’t as bad as he expects.

At the end of the day, when they stagger back to the hotel, they are sunburned, slightly drunk and thoroughly entertained. As he fumbles with the electronic key, Brad opens his mouth to announce that NASCAR may not be as whiskey tango ridiculous as he originally thought, but his words are cut off by the sight of Ray leaning against the wall by the door. Black tank top, Oakleys hooked in the neck, sun-kissed and a little sweaty, wearing a lazy, sexy grin. Jesus christ, something about him just pushes every damn one of Brad’s buttons. He yanks Ray into the room, pushing him up against the wall and biting at his mouth. The kiss goes on and on, turning into sloppy, hot sex; the kind two people who know each other inside out have, where they know the exact places to touch and the right pressure and angle to use to drive each other crazy. Rough, a little mean, it starts hurried and ends with them sprawled in a sticky, sweaty mess on top of the king-sized bed’s duvet. Brad’s working up the energy to move when Ray snickers and asks, “Well, Iceman, aren’t you sorry now that your parents never took you to NASCAR?”

~~~~~~

 

Back when Ray heard Reporter recounting the LT’s cracked out, moto speech about Iraq being a safe country, relatively speaking, as they hunkered by the humvee’s tire and waited for Pappy and Rudy to take care of the Zeus aimed at for them, Ray had rolled his eyes so hard he’d sprained something. Clearly the LT was suffering from sleep deprivation or adrenaline overload to let bullshit like that come out of his mouth.

Today, though, Ray suddenly has much more sympathy for the LT and his ridiculous speech. Ray is crouched precariously in a tree house – basically a platform about fifteen feet up an old maple in the senior Colberts’ backyard – that is at least twenty years old. Ray’s pretty sure it hasn't been weight-checked for two grown men in years, if ever, and if Mr. Colbert dies as the platform plummets to the ground, he’s never going to hear the end of it. Still, he thinks the LT was right: there’s something to be said for relative safety, and he’s pretty sure he’s safer fifteen feet up in the air on a wobbly platform than he would be down on the ground right now. Below there be dragons…also known as the Colbert women, who are not entirely thrilled with their dear Ray-Ray at the moment.

Ray thinks they aren’t being entirely reasonable. He is in charge of entertaining Brad’s heathen nieces and nephews for the day – they gave him the job, it’s not like he asked to be in charge of them – and he has done a pretty damn good job. Three of four of the tiny humans (aka the devil’s spawn) are currently sprawled on lawn furniture and in people’s laps, in a general state of exhaustion, worn out by chasing Uncle Ray and Grandpa Colbert around the pool, through the house, to the side yard and through to the back yard again. No obstacle was too great, including flower beds, fragile furniture, and one sadly unsuccessful attempt to hurdle a picnic table full of food. The fourth tiny human (who is getting old enough to be not so tiny) is still armed with a fully-loaded super soaker and a couple of water balloons; she’s got her eyes peeled but hasn’t thought to look up above the ground…yet.

The Colbert women seem to disagree with Ray’s assessment of the situation though; he’s pretty sure if he was within arm’s length of any of them, they’d wring his neck or at least have serious words for him on appropriate inside/outside behavior and better methods for the channeling of destructive urges. Brad is remaining irritatingly silent on the whole brouhaha – as if the water balloons hadn’t been his damned idea! Ray won’t be forgetting that!

Ray remains still as a statue, his training coming in handy, as Mr. Colbert eases down into a more comfortable sitting position. They wait for several long minutes, and Ray begins to think they’ll be able to get out of this without being soaked or strangled. Until he hears Anna pipe up, “There they are – up in the tree house!” And she lobs the last of her balloons.

Christ, not so safe after all.

Fortunately for Ray and Mr. Colbert, her aim and arm are not so great yet, so the balloons splat mostly harmlessly back down on the ground.

Brad decides it's time to intervene, and manages to grab the water gun before she lets off a huge burst of water that probably would've soaked them. "Honey, you've got them cornered up there. Maybe it's time to negotiate the terms of their surrender."

Fuck that, Ray thinks. Marines don't surrender. I could be out of the tree in a heartbeat, turning the tables on the little monster and chasing her with her own water gun. But then he remembers that Mr. Colbert's sitting next to him, and figures it's time to give in. Whatever "ransom" the kidlet demands won't be too bad, probably a trip to SeaWorld or sitting through some heinous Hannah Montana movie.

Ray's a little more worried about the Colbert women, but has confidence in his ability to charm them. Or to bribe them into a better mood with food and offers to repair the flower bed and wash or replace the filthy clothing of the devil's spawn. After all, nothing was actually broken or permanently damaged, and what's a little spilled food among family?


	3. A Steady Diet of Sodapop and Ritalin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brad likes elevator music and musical theater. Ray thinks it's time he was schooled in real music.

“Person, turn off your computer, grab your gear, we’re going now.”

Brad’s voice jolts Ray out of the his daze; he’s been hunched over his computer for several hours, tap tap tapping away, working on a memorandum to accompany a motion for summary judgment for another client that McGraw and Schwetje pissed off. How Ferrando Mattis LLP stays in business with utter retards like them as head litigators boggles Ray’s mind sometimes. But never fear! Josh Ray Person will pull their heads out of their asses and save the day by winning the case. He deserves a fucking medal, or maybe a red cape and a big-ass “SL” (for SuperLawyer, fucknuts) on his shirt, for spending yet another Sunday at the office when he could’ve been home harassing Brad into watching football or going with him to the gym. The only bright spot: Brad’s won tickets in a work lottery to a Broadway show, and they’re going to the matinee today. When Ray left the apartment at ohmygod o’clock this morning, Brad mumbled something about swinging by to pick him up. Ray’s not sure what they’re going to see, maybe that Andrew Jackson mess that has gotten very mixed reviews? Brad didn’t say which show, dumbass probably hasn’t checked the tickets or taken them out of the envelope other than to confirm date and time. Also, Brad thinks he hides it, but Ray knows that he secretly loves the theater and would be willing to see almost anything on or off Broadway, but he especially loves musical theater. Which is about as gay as you can get. Which is also consistent with Brad’s musical taste: the Air Supply, Journey and REO Speedwagon CDs that were revealed when they moved in together made Ray seriously reconsider how well he knew the Iceman and wonder what he was getting into. Oh, god, what if they were going to see Rock of Ages?

Brad chivies Ray into his jacket and out of the building, waving at the security guards on weekend door duty; he’s gotten to know all of them, between Ray’s insane hours and his own erratic schedule. On the walk to the subway station and then the ride to Times Square, Brad shares gym gossip: which idiot nearly choked when his moron spotter was too busy ogling a woman doing squats to actually spot; how the noob nearly fell off the treadmill after accidentally bumping the speed up past jog to sprint; and how Rudy, the yoga-loving Special Snowflake who also teaches judo and tai chi, asked if Ray has given up on working out since he hadn’t seen him in on a Sunday in a while. Ray just snorts at that last, because he actually sort of misses going to the gym with Brad on the weekend and resents the retardation at work that’s interfering with his real life.

When they hit 44th Street, Ray hesitates for a moment. “Brad, you better not have dragged me out of the office for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s craptastic paean to schmoop, over-riding ego and operatic hob-goblins.”

“Ray, first, Webber is a genius, and you shouldn’t malign him. Second, are we on that side of the street? Are you directionally challenged? Fuck, no, here we are.”

And where they are is the sidewalk in front of the St. James Theater, standing at the edge of a mob of people in the early October chill, waiting for the doors to open.

“You won tickets to this? To this, Brad? Do you know what this is?”

Brad heaves a martyred sigh. “It’s a modern musical, a rock opera, Ray, and it’s gotten pretty good reviews. I thought you’d like it. But if you’d rather, we can still probably get tickets for Phantom.”

Just then the doors open, and instead of responding, Ray nudges Brad into queue of ticketholders waiting to be scanned and directed to their seats. And their seats…are pretty awesome: center orchestra, ten rows back, a few seats in from the left side.

When a voice overhead announces, “Today the role of St. Jimmy will be played by Billie Joe Armstrong,” the crowd cheers. Brad leans over to ask what was up with that, but just then the lights dim, so the question goes unvoiced.

After the show, they push their way out of the theater and through the crowd waiting outside. WTF? The show is over, people, move the fuck out of the way. Brad actually asks about that, but Ray just rolls his eyes and drags Brad out into the street to move around the crowd.

By virtue of winning Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock, Ray gets to pick their dining venue: Five Napkin Burgers, which is fine by Brad. After they’ve flirted with their waitress and placed their orders, Ray arches his eyebrow at Brad and asks, “So, my Air Supply-loving friend, what did you think?”

“It wasn’t too bad; I kind of liked the music. Wasn’t really sure what to think. What’d you think?”

“Oh, it rocked. But I knew it would, first ‘cause it is Green Day’s music and second, you remember when you went home for your cousin’s wedding back in April? Walt’s girlfriend dumped him and I was stuck holding his hand all weekend until she wised up and came back? We ended up seeing it then because he’d bought tickets for her birthday. But it was different this time: the actor who usually plays St. Jimmy has a different take on the role, much more threatening, darker, and sexier. He rocks a side-hawk and some sick tattoos.”

“St. Jimmy as sexy? I don’t know. I don’t see it, Ray. I was kind of creeped out by the little dude playing St. Jimmy.”

Ray laughs so hard he chokes, much to Brad’s amazement and then irritation. “What the fuck, Ray?”

When Ray can breathe again, he gasps, “But that’s Billie Joe Armstrong!”

Brad’s wearing his bitch face now, and says in his best fuck you tone, “Whatever, bonehead...who is Billie Joe Armstrong?” Which causes Ray to gasp and choke again; the couple at the next table look concerned, as if Ray is having some sort of convulsion or epileptic fit.

“Homes, I may have to disown you or something, because I’m not sure I can sleep with someone so disconnected from popular culture. Billie Joe Armstrong is the lead singer of Green Day. He wrote that all that shit: the play is his fucking brainchild! And he creeps you out!” Ray starts chortling again.

Once Ray manages to gain control of himself – mostly, because every so often his dimple pops out and he snickers again – they settle into their meal and debate which characters they’d like to hang out with. Ray votes for Tunny, or the guy playing him: dude, it's the sketchy body art, which he’s sure has some sort of drunken tale behind it; Ray also admires his mouth but isn't going to say so since the actor looks about 13 and Ray's not a perv. Or not much. Brad is torn between Johnny and Will, but eventually picks Will, first because he’s a little put off by Johnny’s excessive guyliner, and second because Will has a Scott Pilgrim tee; any guy (or character) who’s into Scott Pilgrim comics is alright in Brad’s book. Brad would never admit it, but in addition to overused eyeliner, Johnny talks too much: he never shut up during the play, and Brad's got all the mouth he can handle with Ray.

Ray knows that Brad probably isn’t consciously aware of it, but part of the appeal of Will is that his story is painfully familiar: abandoned by the woman he loves but is apparently unable to communicate with. Shades of Brad’s relationship with She Whose Name Ray Refuses to Speak, who dumped him in grad school. Ray’s grateful to her, because otherwise who knows if Brad would’ve ventured to New York City? Ray doesn’t believe in god or predestination or soul mates or bullshit like that, but he does think that Brad is a karmic reward for some bad shit in his own youth. But he also hates her for what her casual dismissal did to Brad’s heart and self-esteem.

Johnny, he’s a sympathetic screw up. Whatsername is hot, if a little freaky with those huge eyes and vinyl boots.

Brad’s kind of skeptical about Tunny, in part because he’s so buttoned up, which is just weird. To California boy Brad, polos are not meant to be buttoned up; if anything, the collar was to be popped, nothing else. Really, Brad’s primary problem with Tunny is that he’s a tattoo snob. Which is all well and good, considering the art work on his own back. Ray’s slightly more tolerant about the dodgier looking ink on Hot Lips, since some of his own tattoos are not as meticulously planned as Brad’s. (Also, he thinks an actor who gets paid to get eight lap dances a week is pretty slick.) They spend a long time trying to catalog his tattoos from memory. On his neck, a solid star. On the left arm, there’s a skull; a diamond-looking thing with some script; a snake; a spidery-scorpion looking thing; and a bar code. On his chest, a roaring lion. On his right arm, a Black Flag logo; a ball & chain attached to the word “WASTED”, and maybe something high up on the arm toward the shoulder, bird or a plane. They argue about whether or not there’s a peace symbol on the inside of his wrist, whether that would be some sarcasm or irony for the character, and about what the tattoo on his left leg was. Ray’s point is that however dodgy the body art may be, it sort of makes sense for the character but also in context with the character’s creator, who has his own collection of tattoos of varying quality. He also kind of wonders if there are any unseen tattoos, like on that very fine ass. (“The actor playing Favorite Son was totally checking him out, Brad, and not in an I-want-to-recruit-you-to-the-military kind of way. In an I-want-to-get-you-out-of-those-heinous-white-briefs kind of way. Between that mouth and that ass? Let’s just say I wouldn’t kick him out of bed unless it was to fuck him on the floor.”)

~~~~~~

 

Ray wonders if Brad was dropped on his head as an infant, causing brain damage to whatever area of the brain controls music appreciation. There’s no other explanation for his passion for elevator music from the 1980s. Why else would his musical taste runs to Air Supply, Chicago, and the like? He’s met the senior Colberts: their musical tastes run to classical music and the classic rock of their youth. His sisters seems to have relatively normal musical tastes, too, as far as Ray’s been able to tell, based on what they listen to in the car and the casual mentions of concerts in random conversation. No signs or symptoms of musical retardation. It must be the result of a tragic, cranial disaster in Brad’s youth or some form of high functioning autism.

Ray is certain it can be overcome, though.

Brad’s enjoyment of American Idiot presents what his clinical law prof used to call a teachable moment, so Ray decides to capitalize on it. Being a sneaky motherfucker, he doesn’t jump right on it. No, he lets AI sink in a bit; when he hears Brad humming “Good Riddance” (a song Ray would gladly never hear again, given a choice), he figures it’s time to begin The Musical Re-Education of Bradley Colbert. He’ll never know what hit him.

After a truly crappy day at the office (will the MIT idiot subordinate never learn?), Brad comes home and slumps on the couch. Planning to listen to some of his favorite tunes, he reaches toward the CD shelf in their entertainment unit, only to notice that their collection has been decimated. And what the fuck? It’s all his music that’s gone, none of Ray’s. That cannot be an accident! Is Ray trying to tell him something?

Only one of his CDs appears to have been left behind. Opening the case for All Out of Love, he finds that instead of a disc, there’s a note in Ray’s spiky handwriting: “Before your humongous yet paranoid brain jumps to conclusions: there is no subtext here. The disappearing CDs don’t mean I’m booting your giant, Viking ass out in some loser, passive-aggressive way. No, it means Russell Hitchcock is on hiatus, because it’s time to grow your musical taste. Check out the discs stacked on the coffee table. For each one that you listen to, learn about, and can talk to me coherently about, you’ll get one of your CDs of what I laughingly call pop music back.”

Oh, that pushy, interfering, musically-condescending midget. As if Brad needs instruction. Screw that, there’s still his mp3 player and the music backed up on his external drive. Except the external drive is not where he left it. And someone has fucked with the playlists on his mp3 player.

“Ray! You conniving little prick! Get your ass in here! And bring my music with you!”

In saunters Ray with a cheesy grin. “Sorry, Colbert, no can do. That crap you listen to isn’t music. It’s time for you to learn to listen to real music. And I think it’s best if your instruction begins with Green Day, in reverse chronological order, since you seem predisposed to liking what we heard at the theater last week.”

Ray proceeds to talk to Brad about musical themes on American Idiot and 21st Century Breakdown, comparing the recorded albums by the band with the cast recording. He also lectures about the social and political environment that produced both albums. This makes Brad roll his eyes so hard he nearly sprains something – a habit he picked up from Ray – because Brad actually lived through the same things, so it’s not as if he needs the history lesson.

Once Brad’s sort of hooked on those albums, Ray progresses backward, going all the way back to 39/Smooth, although he argues that Kerplunk! is really the first true Green Day album, since it’s the first with the three members of the band proper. Interspersed with the music is more pop culture, including Ray’s confession that Billie Joe Armstrong is a personal hero for more than his music.

“You see, Bradley, right about the time I was realizing that I liked dick as much as I liked pussy, Billie Joe and Green Day were just hitting big, and his openness about bisexuality, cross-dressing, and gender constraints made me see that I wasn’t a freak. Or, well, that I should let my freak flag fly, and not hide any of who I am or apologize for it. ‘Cause, y’know, society’s bullshit channeling of gender and sexuality into an artificial two-note classification system is a crock. Kinsey’s continuum is by far the more accurate depiction of sexuality and gender, and fuck anyone who thinks I’m less of a man because I like dick, too.”  
Ray is seldom serious, so this statement, mixed in with the lectures on Green Day’s touring history and their relationships with their music labels, is something Brad pays close attention to and absorbs, even though he doesn’t respond to it by anything other than an arched brow.

Brad will never admit it for fear of further bloating Ray’s not insignificant ego, but he’s kind of enjoying the musical tutelage: there’s something to be said for listening to Ray when he’s waxing rhapsodic about the biggest specific influences on Green Day’s music, which segues into a discourse on the history of punk rock and its roots in folk rock. It kind of turns him on, listening to Ray being so knowledgeable and competent and enthusiastic about this subject that has nothing to do with his professional expertise and everything to do with one of his side loves.

In the midst of a discussion about concept albums and thematic consistency, Ray has a lightbulb moment. Brad cues in on thematic consistency better than any non-musician Ray’s ever met. The reason Brad likes mushy, inoffensive balladeers like Air Supply is that they have only one note, so there’s no jarring change of theme or musical entry in an album. Ray’s relieved by the realization, since it solves one of the many riddles making up the conundrum that is Bradley Colbert. He feels like he’s working his way to the heart of a giant brain-teaser or logic problem as he gets to know Brad more; it’s exhilarating and frustrating and he loves when he *gets* one more piece of the puzzle that is the Iceman.

Ultimately, Brad decides that he likes Insomniac best of all Green Day’s albums. But if forced to pick a single Green Day album to listen to on his mp3 player on repeat in perpetuity, he’d take the cast recording of American Idiot on Broadway over all their studio albums, because it *works* for him as a rock opera: a lot of the songs by the cast are more interesting to him, musically speaking, sung contra style or with women’s voices, than with just Billie Joe, Tre and Mike. He also gets a kick out of the words and idea of “Dominated Love Slave”, even if he doesn’t like the very country-music sound of the song.

Part of Brad’s musical schooling includes looking at Green Day and American Idiot cast videos on YouTube. After seeing clips of Tony Vincent’s St. Jimmy online, Brad’s a little sorry that he didn’t get to see Vincent’s interpretation of the character live: any guy willing to rock the sidehawk for his art is hard core, and Brad can appreciate that. Maybe he’ll have to bug Ray into seeing it again; it doesn’t seem like it would a hard sell, given his own admiration of the music.

Brad’s flipping through the cable music stations to get to VH-1 so he can watch the Green Day edition of Storytellers (his musical homework assigned by Ray with the threat of withheld blow jobs, a threat Brad takes very seriously), lamenting that MTV and VH-1 don’t actually air music videos any longer. How the fuck can they be “music television” if they don’t actually play it? Clearly television programmers do not grasp the concept of irony. He also thinks they’re a bunch of pussies, editing out potentially “offensive” words like fuck, faggot, and cocaine. As if, OMG, kids have never heard those words elsewhere. Since beginning his musical odyssey, Brad has snarked about this to Ray and twitted him mercilessly, as if Ray has control over Viacom’s programming choices. When Brad hears a voice sing, “…you can ride to the top but you can’t ride on my cock…”, he stops, just to hear what comes next. He’s listening intently when Ray stomps into the living room and snarls, “What is that Jewish fucker doing on screen? Turn his yowling the fuck off right the fuck now!”

“Ray, is there suddenly something wrong with being a child of Israel? You seemed to have no problem with it at your first family Seder.”

“The only thing wrong with Gabe Saporta, that boludo, is that he fucking co-opted my pimp shade look for his band persona. Back at Rutgers, we were in Philosophy 212 together. We ended up being the only non-retards in the class, so of course we bonded over our lack of idiocy, the brilliance of Henry Rollins, and Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason. Not only did he get the pimp shades idea from me, he corrupted it by wearing those ridiculous fucking shutter shades!” Ray’s voice goes precipitously high during his rant. When he finally pauses for air, it drops back to his normal timbre. “I ought to stomp out to his family’s place on Long Island and kick his ass for him.” Ray pauses again, this time to look speculatively at Brad. “Except he’s maybe the tallest human being I’ve ever met other than you. So you should kick his ass for me!”

“I don’t think so, you vertically challenged smurf. Now stop blocking the TV. I need to watch Storytellers and you are definitely going to have to put out tonight.”

As Ray flounces out of the room, Brad has to bite his cheeks to keep from laughing. But later, he’s kind of curious about Saporta, because anybody who can incite that kind of rant from Ray is to be admired, so he downloads some of his music. It seems quite varied, depending on whichever band Saporta’s fronting. He also seems to have some sort of flirtation or genderfuckery thing going with Pete Wentz, who is the biggest attention whore ever, or so it seems to Brad…biggest attention whore outside of Ray, that is. How had Brad not known about this? He’d heard all about Ray’s sucky college band opening for Saves the Day way back when.  
Ray probably would never have known about Brad’s independent venture into the Fueled By Ramen/Decaydance family except he overhears Brad singing in the shower one morning about a girl he’d take home to mom if his momma was dead, followed by Shoplifter. It’s enough to give a guy whiplash, homes.

Brad gradually gets his elevator music back, one CD at a time, but he feels less of an urge to listen to them. Mixed in with the education is exposure to other music, and Brad has fallen in love with Rob Thomas’s voice. “Street Corner Symphony” is maybe his favorite from Thomas’s debut solo album.

The first time Ray comes home and finds Brad listening to Dookie on his own – after his own CDs have been returned – Ray knows Brad’s turned a corner and feels a thrill of victory. Another punk music fan? Motherfuckingcheck. The music pimp strikes again.

~~~~~~

 

For their secular winter solstice holiday, Brad gets them tickets for a mid-January weekend show of American Idiot. He tells Ray it’s purely for science: the objective comparison of sensory perception once it is backed by knowledge of the material. Now that he’s been properly schooled, he can appreciate the story and performances better. Any scientist would appreciate that. Ray would call Brad on that bullshit, but watching Hot Lips get a lap dance is nothing to sneeze at, and Billie Joe Armstrong announces he’s coming back for an encore performance as St. Jimmy, which rocks down to the ground.

Waiting for the show to start, Ray marvels once again at how fucking stupid people are. What part of “no video or photographs in the theater at any time” do they not fucking understand? The ushers have to repeat it to at least a couple dozen morons who think the statement doesn’t apply to *them*.

Their after-show dinner, this time at an Afghan place over on 9th, is an analysis and rehash of the show. It involves less choking and fewer fits of convulsive laughter on Ray’s part. Ray wants to get a tape or reel of all the stuff that ran on the TVs, so he can watch it without being distracted by everything on stage: it matches the story, but he was so busy what was going on in the three distinct areas at all times that he feels like he missed a lot. Brad likes the dancing, which really suits the material and the music – abrupt, edgy, and angry. He wonders, though, if Michael Mayer wants Islamic fundamentalists to declare a fatwah against him, Green Day, and the St. James Theater. Even knowing the source of the scene is Tunny’s drug-induced dreaming, the “Extraordinary Girl” aerial sequence seems like it could be a little offensive, with its burqa and “I Dream of Jeannie” outfit.

Although he appreciates Billie Joe Armstrong’s willingness to give up singing lead on the songs, Brad still finds him kind of creepy – it’s those little teeth! – but he does see the appeal. His St. Jimmy is kind of Ray-like: a seductive, louche trouble-maker who gets under your skin before you realize he’s there. Ray, on the other hand, thinks Armstrong’s St. Jimmy is cheerful little perv, a grown up, coked out Calvin, and he loves the kisses blown as St. Jimmy’s carried off the stage by his funeral cortege.

~~~~~

 

A few days later, Brad is toasting a bagel and clicking through several links Ray’s left him on his laptop. He reads the NYT Artsblog post on a potential American Idiot movie, then clicks the link to the NYT theater critic’s review of Armstrong’s performance. The accompanying picture makes Ray’s post-it stuck to the screen make much more sense: Some men should not attempt drag. Even as a joke.

Brad just snorts and keeps reading. He only looks up when Ray clears his throat. He’s posing in the doorway, wearing a suspiciously familiar red-sequined dress and aviator shades.

“Whaa- where did you get that?”

Peering over the top of the shades, Ray gives him a wink and lets the dimples show, saying, “Don’t ask, don’t tell, Bradley. There may have been a felony involved. Or at least a misdemeanor.”  
Then he sashays around the breakfast bar and starts singing “I Kissed A Boy”, which segues into the main event: “Favorite Son”. Each song includes appropriate choreography, including a lap dance like Tunny’s, and some junk-grabbing a la Cobra Starship’s lyrics. The singing ends with Ray on Brad’s lap, which he gives a quick, final grind, before hopping off. With one last, teasing grope, he’s back by the doorway, where he poses once again. Then with a blown kiss and a wriggle of his hips, he’s gone.

For a moment, Brad just sits on the barstool, computer and breakfast forgotten. He loves when Ray plays with gender roles. It’s like he loses what few inhibitions he has; it’s scorchingly hot. Which is saying something, because Brad finds Ray’s brain, mouth and body to be pretty damn sexy to begin with. On those occasions when Ray breaks out the Dr. Frank-N-Furter heels and corset, Brad knows Ray, normally a mouth, pushy bottom, is going to top the hell out of him, and he’s fairly certain that this particular dress is going to have a similar effect.

Before he can gather the brain cells and coordinate his limbs to follow, Ray’s voice barks at him from the hallway, “What are you waiting for, recruit? An engraved invitation? Get your ass into the bedroom.”

And then Brad’s out of the chair, chasing him down the hall, trying to pull the sequined dress off Ray while edging him though the bedroom door.


	4. Domestic Schmoop - Brad/Ray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw a pic of a little black cat spooning a bigger dog, and in my head they became Ray and Brad, with Ray taking care of Brad.

Would you please BACK. THE FUCK. UP!

It's a dream. Brad knows it's a dream even as his heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline floods his bloodstream.

There's movement at his six o'clock, the Humvee's door opening -- what the fuck?!? He doesn't have time to look; the ambush waiting in the trees occupies nearly all of his attention. And then Ray's out of the vehicle, unarmed but for his sidearm, which is practically useless in this situation.

When Ray shouts at the rest of Bravo to back the fuck up -- trying to get them to unfuck themselves, because his retarded brothers in the vehicles behind them are obviously unable to think of such a basic strategy of their own, which makes Brad question their right to call themselves Recon Marines -- Brad can hear all kinds of aggravation in Ray's voice, and he knows he'll be treated to a Ripped Fuel-laced rant about the lame ass drivers in their platoon. He turns to smile at Ray as he climbs back in the Humvee, just in time to see Ray take two rounds to the chest and to feel Ray's blood spray across his face.

It's not real -- Brad knows it's not real. That was years ago. Ray drove Bravo Two safely (well, relatively safely) through Iraq and returned home.

But still Brad jolts awake, fear and adrenaline racing through his veins. He bolts for the bathroom and makes it just in time to heave the remains of his welcome home dinner. For a moment, he slumps on the floor, head leaning against the cool porcelain, then he gets up and splashes water on his face, brushes his teeth. He looks at himself in the mirror without meeting his own eyes, cataloging the usual lost weight and farmer's tan of deployment.

When he's feeling less wobbly, Brad makes his way back to the bedroom, where he leans against the door jam and gazes at the bed and its rumpled sheets, where Ray is just waking up. Ray, who drove him through Iraq, then left the Marines. Ray, who began as his brother Marine, then became his friend and then more than his friend. Ray, who is a blanket and pillow thief, as well as a mattress hog, leaving Brad only a small fraction of the bed to call his own. (Brad usually solves this mattress real estate problem by sprawling all over Ray. He doesn't seem to mind.) Ray, who opens sleepy brown eyes that somehow see straight through Brad, reading his mind and heart.

"You're safe. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. It's all right and tight. Get your giant Viking ass back in bed."

Brad drops his gaze, then clambers back into bed. There's some awkward shuffling of limbs and rearranging of bedclothes, then they settle together. Ray holds Brad, chest pressed to Brad's back, with one leg draped over Brad's hip and his nose resting on the back of Brad's neck, lips pressed to the top of Brad's spine. His arms are wrapped tightly around Brad, cradling him safe and close. Brad drifts back to sleep with Ray's breath even against his back, knowing there will be no more bad dreams tonight.


	5. It's a verbal tick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray talks a lot, but it's not a verbal tic or illness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite dated now, based on the reference to True Blood, which was airing when I wrote this.

There's a box from despair.com waiting for Brad at the front desk when Ray picks up the mail. He drops it on the table by the door where all keys must be placed upon entry according to someone's OCD rules. Brad hmmmmms when he sees it, then the box disappears. Ray figures it's a demotivational calendar or something for the office, another prop for Brad's insidious campaign to drive the MIT idiot over the edge and out of the firm, and promptly forgets about it as he cooks dinner. (Ray is a freaking genius in the kitchen, homes, he worked as a short order cook in college -- one of his many gigs to fund his schooling. Plus it kept him fed during law school.) Tonight's menu is chicken with a Moroccan spice rub and mango couscous. Brad's responsible for the salad, which means there'll be sprouts and other freaky, Californized vegetables.

After their nod to healthy dining, they finish off the last of a six pack of Dogfish Head's most recent experimental winter ale while watching HBO's latest series offerings: Brad's doppleganger is apparently in love with a creepy waitress with a very bad fake Southern accent and the poor taste to prefer that homely brown-haired dude. Brad thinks the ale is okay but not his favorite, while Ray is glad the six pack is gone. Really, Ray laments that Red Hook's Double Black Stout is so hard to find, because he loves that shit -- beer and caffeine, the perfect combination!

Ray rolls out of bed the next morning and grabs the work out gear on top in the bureau. It's still pitch black outside as he and Brad jog to the gym; no one's out and about yet except them. Masochists. Ray's on the bike when Rudy and Walt arrive. He nods and instead of the usual nods back that is all most gym patrons can muster at that hour, he gets a huge grin and a wink from Walt. Huh? Ray'd stop and ask Walt what the wink was about, except the bike's program just kicked into a higher gear, and it's all he can do to keep going, forget unnecessary talking.

After finishing up, he heads over toward the free weights, where he and Brad usually meet to spot each other. And he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What the everloving fuck is he wearing? Yes, it came out of his bureau drawer, but he's never seen this thing before in his life. Taking a closer look, he reads the slogan backwards in the mirror, then cranes his head and pulls the t-shirt off his chest to read it.

"Just pretend I have Tourette's. **_Just pretend I have Tourette's?_** " His voice rises as he repeats the phrase. "Bradley Colbert, you devious, manipulative asshole! Were you going to let me walk out in public wearing this thing? My feelings are hurt, crushed even, that you liken my verbal brilliance and polished delivery of information and opinions to mere uncontrolled outbursts of socially unacceptable words and phrases! My eloquence is not accidental or a tic! It takes a sharp mind, keen observation skills, and the vocabulary of an SAT prep wizard to craft those speeches! I am wounded! Mortally!"

He flops down on the weight bench and scowls up at Brad, who pretends to ignore him, devoting his attention to adjusting the weights on the bar. But Brad's got the ghost of a smile on his face, as if he's achieved a desired result. Which is possibly true, since Brad sometimes eggs Ray on or plays contrarian just to hear more outrageous bullshit fall from Ray's lips once he's on a roll.

At the deli on the way home, where they stop to get bagels and orange juice, the clerk Ray usually flirts with takes one look at the t-shirt and laughs. At the newsstand on the corner, Khalid asks if Tourette's is fatal. Brad snickers all the way home and up the stairs.

Ray, for all his pretend outrage, makes sure the t-shirt is washed promptly and returned quickly to the bureau drawer so he can wear it again. And again and again, until its decal is almost worn off and the collar is frayed and it is like the Velveteen Rabbit of t-shirts.


	6. Lost in the library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's a Recon Marine, he can find Ray.

Ray's out of the Corps, and he got his brain back and is putting it to use at UCSD. He's thisclose to finishing with a double major in communications and information management. Ray's spending a lot of time at the library, often dozing off at his habitual study carrel. Because when he falls asleep at home, in bed or on the couch, he reaches for Brad in that not-quite-awake moment, and then when he wakes up fully, he has a hollow feeling in his stomach that lasts all day. The crick in his neck from the study carrel is better than the hollow feeling.

Brad's been in Afghanistan for eight months, and his departure date has been pushed back twice. Even though Ray's been out for a while now, it feels weird to be deployed without him. No one talks shit quite the same way as Ray, mixing porn, pop culture and geopolitics into one short rant. He's stopped thinking about his return date, and he and Ray don't talk about it during their rare phone conversations.

So when he finally gets orders to that his platoon is going wheels up, he doesn't get his hopes up or mention it to Ray. Which is why, when he gets home, no one is waiting for him. Which, okay, fine, he's a Recon marine, he can find Ray.

The trail leads him to the stacks in the Social Sciences and Humanities library. (The electronic trail that is: Brad uses the gps function of Ray's phone.) Why Ray's not at the CLICS, he's not sure. But the why doesn't matter at this point. 

There's his carrel, with a gigantic travel mug that has probably been refilled with coffee several times that day, and Ray's messenger bad with lame patches, and his laptop, properly secured against potential library thievery. But where's Ray?

Brad finds him aimlessly scanning a shelf of books on the Odyssey. And clearly Ray's situational awareness has gone to shit, because he manages to get Ray spun around and pinned to the stacks in a heartbeat.


	7. 72 hours of liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A weekend away from base doesn't go quite as expected. Originally written for Spring Fling fic exchange for spirit_lizard with the prompts Where the Wild Things Are and a picture of a man in the water kissing a man lying on a pier/dock.

It’s after 23:00 when Ray's phone rings. It's the Avril "Girlfriend" ring, meaning Brad's calling him. After 23:00 on a Sunday night? It could be a booty call, or a complete disaster.

"Put your sunscreen and your pimp shades on, Ray, and grab your hiking boots and swim trunks. We're Oscar Mike in ten." 

Before Ray can interrogate him, Brad has ended the call. Rude, peremptory motherfucker. Ray stomps around his quarters, mumbling about unreasonable demands made at ridiculous hours of the night, even as he tosses stuff into a backpack. 

In less than ten minutes, Brad pulls up in front of the building. He climbs out to unlock the back of the Jeep, so Ray can put his bag next to the cooler, and then circles around to the passenger side as Ray climbs into the driver's seat. Old habits.

"Where to, princess?"

"Take the Five out of town and stay on it until I say otherwise."

"It'd help if I knew where I was driving."

"Need to know. We have 72 hours libo, don't have to report on base until 07:00 Thursday. We're going to enjoy the rustic comforts of my family's summer cabin. Hiking, boating, swimming, and all the outdoor entertainment we can fit into three days." He gives Ray a small half-smile, then reaches into the console between the seats, pulling out a bag of Skittles. Dumping a handful in his mouth, he passes it over to Ray. "If we drive all night, we'll be there by dawn."

"How'd you work this? Is it safe to leave Hasser with Trombley?"

"Don't ask, don't tell, Corporal. But all Bravo 2-1 has a 72 hour pass. Walt'll be holed up with his new girlfriend. Trombley -- who the fuck knows? But Poke'll keep an eye on things and make sure nothing comes up."

After debating about what to play on the radio -- they decide radio silence is best, or singing -- they settle in for the drive. It's just like Iraq: Ray's driving; Brad's navigating; they've got all the Skittles and dip they need. Except the Jeep isn't a tin-plated piece of crap that's about to fall apart, and no one's shooting at them, and Brad knows exactly where they're going, and fucking Trombley isn't sneaking Charms in the backseat. So, not like Iraq at all, really.

For the final hour of the drive, the roads have narrowed, becoming twisty and winding, sign-less, with fewer and fewer houses visible. As the sun creeps over the horizon, Brad says turn here, and Ray maneuvers the truck onto a narrow, unpaved track. Following the lane to its end, they wind up in front of an old bungalow. Ray can see Adirondack chairs and a glider on the covered porch, and further on there's the glitter of dawn light reflecting off water.

With a whoop, Ray cuts the engine and is out of the Jeep, scrambling toward the water. He tosses over his shoulder, "Last one in is the pathetic loser who'll have to unload whatever's in the cooler you packed, Colbert!" Brad's out and following in a flash. Ray sheds clothes and boots on his way to the small pier in front of the house, then he’s naked and diving off the end. A moment later, Brad's in the water with him and they're wrestling and playing like kids.

Eventually Brad boosts himself onto the dock, where he watches Ray paddle around and explore as the sunlight turns from pink to gold. Ray swims over, leaning up for a quick kiss that turns into a second glancing kiss and then a longer third kiss. When he nearly bobs away in the gentle current, Brad grips Ray's arms and pulls him onto the dock and then over him. 

If the dock is used that morning for more than mooring boats, well, no one but the forest and the river know, and they’ll never tell.

~~~~~

 

Later, they stagger back to the Jeep, smelling of river water and each other, bickering like the old married couple their platoon teases them about being. 

"Jesus fucking christ, Brad, my knees are never gonna be the same."

"Shut the fuck up, Ray. Aching knees are nothing. How am I going to explain splinters in my ass?" Which makes Ray snicker, then promise to kiss Brad's ass to make it all better.

Despite the challenge issued earlier, Ray helps Brad unpack the cooler; it's full of "camping" supplies: beer, hot dogs, hamburgers, rolls, marshmallows, graham crackers, chocolate bars, potato salad, and chips. They decide to take a nap during the warm part of the day, and then take a hike in the afternoon. After a quick rinse in the outside shower, they pull on their shorts – no sunburn in awkward places! – and doze off in the hammock strung up between two trees beside the porch.

Hours later, the slamming of car doors jolts them awake. Ray nearly flips them out of the hammock as he tries to escape it. Brad just wraps himself around Ray for a minute to make him calm down, and then braces the hammock so Ray can clamber out. Brad untangles himself from the macramé thing as Ray gives him a what-the-fuck look.

Then there are three kids racing around the corner, screaming for their Uncle Brad, followed at a slower pace by a thirty-ish couple. "Brad, we didn't realize you'd be here this weekend. It's great to see-- " The woman stops short when she sees Ray hovering behind Brad, who's being climbed like a jungle gym by the three kids. "Ah, sorry to interrupt."

"Sarah, Daniel, meet my friend, Ray. Ray, this is my sister, Sarah, and her husband, Daniel. And the creatures currently hanging on me are David, Anna, and Robert."

After awkward handshakes and nods, Sarah and Daniel unload their minivan. Ray's kind of amazed by the sheer volume of stuff required for two adults and three children for a week's vacation. It's more shit than all Bravo needed for six weeks in the desert. Once everything's hauled inside, Sarah unpacks while Daniel (and Brad and Ray, by extension) is ordered to keep the miniature humans entertained for the afternoon as she gets things in order. By the end of the afternoon, Ray realizes that Sarah gets the better end of that deal. Who the hell knew kids took so much energy? They hike forever, carrying the kids for the last couple of miles of the trail. (Ray's a Recon Marine, and no stranger to hiking while carrying a heavy load, but normally his pack doesn't squirm and ask questions constantly and nag are we there yet.) And swim. And get the little sunfish out of the garage and ready for sailing tomorrow. And mediate two minor skirmishes and one all out water war.

By sunset, Ray's exhausted. He's slumped in one of the Adirondacks, nearly asleep, when he realizes he's being watched. Three pairs of eyes are fixed on him, peering up from the edge of the porch. 

"Uncle Brad says to tell you to put your noisemaker to work, Person, that you'll be fine since we're all on the same level of emotional maturity and development." Anna stumbles over the last few words, but the gist is clear, and Ray can hear Brad in them. Shooting a glare over toward the fire pit, where Brad's setting up the flames so they'll have a camp fire later, he gets an arched eyebrow in response.

"Have y'all heard the story of Max and the monsters? No? I am shocked to hear that. What kind of childhood are you having? Settle in, up here on the porch, you take the glider and I'll sit here and tell you about it."

The three of them pile onto the glider, poking at each other and squirming, until they're captivated by Ray's voice. (It must be something in the Colbert make up, some flaw or deficiency of nurture rather than nature, leaving them susceptible, that they are so swayed and intrigued and riveted by one whiskey tango deviant and his silver tongue.) Ray doesn't stay seated very long. As he becomes engrossed in the tale, he becomes Max, making mischief, sailing across the ocean that the porch becomes with his words and motions. Suddenly the shadows aren't just shadows but the encroaching forest of Max's adventure. The kids can see the wild things captivated by Max/Ray's magic as they caper and cavort about the forest/porch in the wild rumpus. By the time Max/Ray sails away home, Brad is sitting on the porch steps, rapt, and Sarah and Daniel are watching from the benches of the fire pit.

"...and that is the story of Max's magical adventures. Are y'all as hungry as he was? I am! Time for s'mores!"

The magic word, s'mores, breaks the spell woven by Ray, and the kids bolt out of the glider toward their parents and the promised treat. Brad remains seated on the porch steps, standing only when Ray reaches him. Standing one step below Ray, their eyes are level. He stares for a moment, as if he's re-evaluating or processing new information. Ray's not sure what he could've seen new or different -- Brad's seen him at his worst, coming off Ripped Fuel, filthy, exhausted, a hung over mess, and at his best, being the kickass Recon Marine that he is, and everything in between.

"Josh Ray Person."

When Ray looks at him questioningly, Brad just shakes his head and smiles, and then nudges Ray toward the fire where everyone is waiting for them.

~~~~~

 

By the time the kidlets are in bed -- they get the room with the two sets of bunk beds -- and Sarah and Daniel have retired, Ray can feel Brad practically vibrating with tension. So he's not entirely surprised to be dragged off to their bedroom, a sort of sleeping porch that's been closed in. After being manhandled into the room, Ray lands on the double bed with a bounce, followed by Brad. And the bed lets out perhaps the most obscene squeal Ray's ever heard. They both freeze, then start to laugh. Even as they roll together to the center of the mattress, snickering and trying to muffle their laughter, the bed continues to broadcast their movements to anyone in hearing distance. The clichéd squeak of rusty coils that movie soundtracks use to signal off-screen sex? Has nothing on the noises their mattress emits with each small movement they make. 

"Brad, I think your family and the furniture are conspiring to cockblock us," Ray whines, banging his head against Brad's shoulder.

"Marines make do, corporal. On your feet, grab the mattress."

After attempting first to drag the mattress off the bed (not enough space), and then rolling around on the floor (not good for already aching knees and splintered buttocks), Ray and Brad wind up braced against the second-hand bureau in the corner. It's actually almost the perfect height, if a little rickety for their weight. The sex ends up rushed and urgent and maybe even hotter than usual since Ray has to work hard to remember to be quiet, even if it isn't the marathon they'd both had in mind to wrap up their first evening on libo when they dozed off in the hammock that morning. 

~~~~~

 

Ray’s awakened the next morning by scuffling noises coming from outside their bedroom door.

“Shhhh!”

“You shush!”

“You’re poking me. And I was here first. Shut up, both of you. If we wake Uncle Brad and Mr. Ray up, they’ll be grouchy and won’t want to play.”

Ray snorts and starts to roll over, only to find that Brad’s already awake, watching him. With his own whispered shh, Brad climbs out of the bed as quietly as the mattress will permit, tugging on his shorts along the way. After making sure Ray’s modestly covered, he flings open the door, and all three kids stumble into the room as if they were pressed up against it. Which they probably were. Brad picks up David, propping him on his hip, while Anna and Robert scramble up and launch themselves onto the bed, which issues even more ridiculous squeaks as they bounce around and vie for Ray’s attention.

“Are you up? Are you awake? Can we go sailing now?”

After an appropriate vacation breakfast -- pop tarts and chocolate milk -- they all tromp out to the driveway, where the sunfish is waiting for launch. The launch only takes twice as long as it ought to with the kids helping. Sarah and Daniel try to keep the kids distracted and to alternate sailing lessons and trips along the shoreline with each of the kids, but they seem to be fascinated by Ray, and by Ray together with Brad; either they want to sail with him, or they want to sit on his shoulders to play water tag and Marco Polo. When he’s not getting all prune fingered (which he tells David is contagious and means his fingers are going to fall off), Ray’s playing with Anna on the tiny patch of shore in front of the house, building castles that topple almost instantly because of defective construction materials – inferior sand is the only possible explanation for the load bearing walls to collapse like that.

At some point, he stops being Mr. Ray and becomes Uncle Ray-Ray. Brad's spit-take when he hears them call him that the first time is magnificent.

After roasting hot dogs on sticks, an easy dinner Sarah approves of and the kids think is gourmet heaven, Ray is prevailed upon to share more adventures. Well, really, badgered and guilted into it via the use of an out-thrust, pouty lower lip and puppy dog eyes from Anna. This time, he tells the tale of Sir Toby Jingle the Brave Knight, who jabs giants and trounces trolls. Once again, Ray acts out the parts, at one point galloping around the porch like a knight’s fiery steed with Robert (Sir Robert the Gallant) perched on his shoulders.

They collapse into bed that night slightly sunburned and completely exhausted. After a single quick grope, Ray’s out like a blown bulb. When he wakes at dawn, Brad’s still asleep. He runs a curious fingertip across Brad’s lips and down to his belly button and beyond, which normally would result in Brad’s instant wakefulness and attention. Today it just earns Ray a grouchy mumble as Brad swats at him and rolls over; not even the creak of the mattress springs wakes Brad. 

“Oh, the magic is gone.” Heaving a sigh, Ray eases out of bed. The house is utterly silent. The heathens must still be asleep. It seems later than the hour they’d woken yesterday; maybe Sarah and Daniel have drugged them? Or they are chained up in the basement? Ray doesn’t know, but he’s (for once) relishing the stillness. After brewing a pot of coffee, he wraps himself in a throw and shuffles out to the glider, where he watches the sun come up over the water and then dozes off again. When he wakes a second time, Brad is tucked up next to him on the glider.

They sit quietly for a while in a comfortable silence, until noises begin to come from inside, signaling the waking of the barbarian horde. 

“How did Sarah and Daniel manage to have three kids? How did they manage to have sex in order to make two more? It’s like they become exponentially more work, rather than just doubling or tripling. What the hell happened to economies of scale?” Pausing to sip some coffee, Ray resumes, “Homes, I really like your family, but they are causing a serious case of blue balls here. When you said we had 72 hours of libo, I expected to spend at least 36 of them having wild monkey sex, indoors and out. Splinter sex and furniture sex does not count…much.”

Ray delivers that last with a nudge, since he knows that Brad knows there’s nothing wrong with their sex life.

“Any chance of us leaving a little early?”

“Ray, Ray, Ray. I’m shocked that you don’t want to take this opportunity to get to know my family better. Is an orgasm more important than familial acceptance? Even a whiskey tango backward retard like you ought to recognize the importance of being introduced to the family, however accidentally.” Brad’s words are mocking but his tone isn’t, and his words are delivered directly into Ray’s ear, along with a rush of warm air that makes Ray shiver.

“Bradley, you may have the self control of a saint and an appreciation for the proper etiquette of significant other introductions, but I had to watch you parade around yesterday in nothing but wet, clinging swim trunks. And then you practically fellated that hotdog on a stick last night. A boy has needs, you know, and I’m beginning to think you are as big a cocktease as I’ve ever met.”

Brad just snorts, and steals Ray’s coffee mug.

~~~~~

 

Daniel and the kids make breakfast, and while everyone consumes stacks of pancakes drowning in maple syrup and butter, the kids plot out their day. The wish list includes more swimming and boating. The sailing is vetoed – yesterday was enough. How could one human being weighing less than 75 pounds cause a boat to capsize? According to the laws of physics, it shouldn’t be possible, but it happened. Twice. So no more sailing. And somehow, in the plotting and planning, Ray’s request for an early departure to facilitate a mid-trip booty stop is abandoned.

Instead, they go for a hike, during which Ray gives Anna beginning lessons in how to be a Recon Marine: swift and silent (not deadly yet, she’s too young for that still). It’s kind of a kick to show her how to walk in the woods nearly noiselessly, and which plants are edible and which might make her brothers itch if rubbed against their skin or on the insides of their clothes. (Ray may live to regret that lesson, especially if Sarah finds out about it. She’s old enough to grasp the “deadly” part of “Swift Silent Deadly”.)

By the time they get back to the cabin, the wind has picked up, which makes for great kite flying. All three kids run around like battery-operated toys. Ray harbors some hope that they’ll be tired enough to need naps. He would appreciate a siesta shared with Brad.

Even as he thinks the word siesta, the wind picks up even more and the clouds on the horizon draw closer. The sky darkens and there’s just enough time to hustle the kids onto the porch before rain begins to fall. It falls for hours, not heavily, but steadily enough that the kids can’t play outside. It’s the first time they’ve all been in the house and awake for an extended period of time. The cabin has an older television and a DVD/VHS combination player, but no PlayStation, Wii or Xbox. Instead, they spend hours playing cards and board games. Eventually the kids get cranky and abandon the games to color and play with puzzles, squabbling with each other over the puzzle pieces and crayons. Brad and Ray pack away Monopoly and set up Battleship on the coffee table, settling on opposite sides with their legs stretched underneath. Every so often, Ray’s fingers stroke from Brad’s ankle to his calf, and he plays with Brad’s toes. Nothing inappropriate for little people to witness, but it still gives Brad goose bumps. 

“Are you cold? Need a sweatshirt, Brad?”

Brad just grunts in response, followed by “G-6, Ray.”

Daniel, who has been playing Go Fish with Anna in an effort to keep her from killing her brothers, suddenly announces, “Okay, time for a ride into town. Kids, put your shoes on.”

It’s only when the kids are buckled into their seats and the door is sliding closed that they realize Brad and Ray aren’t coming with them. 

“Wait! Want Uncle Brad and Ray!”

“We’re going to town to see if they have the new Toy Story movie.” Sarah speaks in her soothing, calm-the-crying-baby voice, which seems to work. Or maybe it’s the mention of Toy Story, or the fact that they are out of the house and doing something, even if they’ve just traded the confinement of the house for the minivan. As Daniel does a three point turn to head out the lane he rolls his window down and gives Brad and Ray a wink, then pulls off.

“Abandoned for a bunch of toy character cartoons…I think my feelings have b –“ Before Ray can finish the sentence, he is thrown over Brad’s shoulder in a fireman carry. He has barely oriented himself before he’s being tossed ever so casually onto their talkative bed, and then Brad lands next to him with a bounce and more squeaks of the mattress.

“Do I need a sweatshirt, Ray? No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. And you, you irritating little pygmy runt, you’re overdressed. Off. All of it. Now.”

As they wrestle each others’ clothes off, the creaking of the bed is constant.

“Homes, this bed probably served your parents’ purpose when you all were teenagers, announcing any attempted underage sex, but it has got. To. Go.” As he says the last, he’s yanking his t-shirt off, struggling to get the collar over his head. Brad laughs, and leans over to kiss Ray. It’s Ray’s favorite kind of kiss (really, they’re all his favorite; there’s no such thing as a bad kiss), the kind where he can feel Brad’s breath and laughter on his lips, his happiness made tangible.

When Brad settles against Ray fully, all warm skin and gold-toned flesh, Ray feels something inside both loosen and tighten; it isn't just the blood rushing to his dick, but something more, a tension that both unwinds and ramps up with the skin-to-skin contact. They are careful about touching in public -- who knows who is watching -- but accustomed to more physical contact, not necessarily sexual, than they've indulged in the last couple of days. Being circumspect about physical contact for the intro to family, and also because you never know what kids are going to see or remark on is all well and good but Ray has missed Brad in the most visceral way, even though he has been right next to him for the last 48 hours. 

Brad leaves a string of biting kisses along Ray's jaw, pausing to nose at the spot just below his ear that, when bitten with just the right amount of pressure, makes Ray's knees wobbly and his dick hard instantly. He hesitates, as if debating how this interlude is going to go, then moves toward Ray's collar bones and his ink.

"Ink slut," Ray murmurs, even as his own fingers trace the patterns drawn on Brad's back from memory.

As Brad pushes up a little in order to move downward, Ray takes advantage of his motion, flipping them so Brad is sprawled beneath him. Ray pins Brad's hands near the headboard, and after leaning into them for a moment and locking eyes with Brad, he turns his head and bites Brad’s right bicep hard then pulls back to kiss the mark he’s left. Ray knows that Brad loves his strength, cloaked in his smaller size, and that being manhandled is a novelty Brad has grown to enjoy. For all that he is smaller than Brad – dude, everyone is smaller than Brad – he’s not fragile, something else that Brad didn’t know he needed until Ray gave it to him. 

As Ray moves down Brad’s body, alternately biting and then soothing, he releases Brad’s hands, which stay where they were pressed. It’s only when Ray has bitten his way down to Brad’s groin that his hands move to grasp the headboard and the edge of the mattress, to keep from laying his hands on Ray’s head to direct it where he wants it to go. 

“Good boy,” Ray croons, then lowers his head to suck a mark into the crease between hip and thigh.

He nuzzles Brad’s dick and gives it a tentative lick, then moves toward the nightstand. Brad stops him, sliding his hand from the headboard to the pillow and under it, pulling out the lube.

“Bradley Colbert, that’s not where we left it…did you plan this?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer, instead leaning back down to mouth at Brad’s balls. Opening the bottle, Ray squirts out the contents, making a lewd noise. He eases a finger into Brad as he tilts his head just so and swallows as much of Brad’s dick as he can, using his other hand to circle and stroke what he can’t take, stroking fingers in tandem with mouth.

When he pauses to breathe, he listens to what is coming out of Brad’s mouth: a litany of curses and prayers, promises and threats. He’ll do anything if Ray will just not stop, he’ll kill Ray if he stops, he’s a fucking god, he’s a miserable bastard for teasing like this. After deciding he’s tortured Brad enough, Ray gives him another finger, and licks him like an ice cream cone from base to head. With a last teasing flick of fingers and tongue, he withdraws.

“Brad, look at me. Look at me.” When Brad’s eyes flutter open, Ray moves up, bracing himself over Brad, and pushes into him. Both their eyes flutter closed, and they are still for a moment. And then the moment is gone, and Ray is rocking into Brad, fucking into him as if he can only get just a little bit closer they’ll be sharing the same skin. Brad’s legs are bent, heels digging into the mattress so he can give as good as he gets, with one hand still pressed against the headboard and the other digging into Ray’s ass as if he can pull Ray deeper into his body. But it’s not enough.

Brad’s earlier threats and promises have dwindled as he’s lost himself, but his gasped “harder, Ray, more, I need more” echoes in Ray’s ears, until he stops abruptly, flipping Brad over, pulling him onto his knees.

“Better?” It’s a grunt, really, as he grasps Brad’s hips and pushes home again. Definitely better, since Brad has more leverage now and can push back with more force, up on his knees with his hands braced against the headboard again. Ray leans over to bite Brad’s shoulder, close, so close. Sliding one hand around to pull at Brad’s dick in counter point to his thrusts, Ray orders Brad, “Now. Now, come now.”

He can feel Brad let go, and keeps moving through Brad’s orgasm, like Brad needs him to. And when Brad’s still at last, he lets himself go, lost in the feel and smell and sound of Brad beneath him.

For a moment, he just lays where he is, still on top of Brad, still in him, sucking a bruise over the moon on his upper back. And then he eases off, rolling to Brad’s side and flopping an arm over his back. After they’ve both caught their breath, he rolls his head on the pillow to ask, “Did you plan that?”

Brad lets out a satisfied sigh and grins at him. “Not that exactly. But this morning Daniel promised some alone time, since he got lucky yesterday while we were giving swimming and sailing lessons.”

“You conniving bastard. I like that about you. And Daniel.”

~~~~~

 

By the time Sarah, Daniel and the kids return home, the rain has tapered off and it’s after dark. Brad and Ray have loaded their stuff into the Jeep, and set their bedroom to rights. They help unload the kids and get them settled, getting handshakes, hugs and kisses as they wish the kids good night. 

With his pimp shades propped on top of his head and a bottle of Mountain Dew open, Ray starts the Jeep and negotiates the narrow lane that takes them back to the road. He and Brad are both quiet for a while.

“I didn’t get to do The Story of Ferdinand, Bradley, or The Very Hungry Caterpillar. They missed some of the very best stories. Who knows what kind of storytelling your sister does – I mean, they didn’t know about Max and the monsters! Does she just stick to Golden Books and Dr. Seuss? Not that there’s anything wrong with those, but children need variety in their reading habits!”

“I’m pretty sure Sarah and Daniel have a wide variety of classic children’s books for them at home, Ray, a collection that even a faux intellectual, debate club reject like you could appreciate. Even so, you can harass them about it next time.” 

And Ray smiles, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him.


	8. Abandoned plot bunny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost the thread here.

Ray has routines that he sticks to while Brad is deployed. No CNN or Faux News allowed in the house, because their rah-rah, half-cocked, politically slanted reporting about Afghanistan or Iraq or Libya or wherever Brad is currently posted will just drive him crazy. When he goes running, he ignores Brad’s favorite routes, leaving them for Brad’s return. The corner bakery is off limits, because the smell of the rugelach reminds him of seders at the Colberts; he’s still invited to holiday dinner (or any dinner, really because Mrs. Colbert loves Ray, no, really, homes, she does), but it’s hard to deal with family togetherness when his favorite piece of family is missing. Brad calls him a sentimental, halfwit twit but he really kind of likes knowing Ray’s waiting for him.

If asked, Brad would announce that he enjoys being at home alone whenever Ray has to travel for work or visited the family members who never managed to get out of that red state in flyover country without him. He’d say it was a relief, being rid of that degenerate gnome who’d followed him home and refused to leave, like some demented stray. But Mike knows better: last time he stopped by their place when Ray was out of town, he found Brad fiddling with his latest computer project, spread over what Ray laughingly calls the dining room table, listening to an alt country satellite radio station and humming along unconsciously to Ray’s favorite song. If he has a hard time falling asleep without hearing Ray’s dulcet tones complaining about the monumental retardation of his nearest and dearest, he’ll never admit it. And Ray knows better than to mention that upon his return, he notices Brad smelling of his so-called pussy vanilla scented bodywash that normally garners nothing but contempt from Brad.


	9. Oatmeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a drabble party. Not actually a drabble. Prompt: oatmeal.

Ray’s return to consciousness is unhurried. He can feel soft cotton sheets tangled around his legs. There’s a pillow shoved up toward the headboard, but the only part of Ray resting on it is his right hand. His left arm is reaching toward Brad’s side of the bed. Patting around, he realizes that the bed is otherwise empty, although the sheets are still warm.

He lingers for a while, wondering if Brad will be coming back soon for lazy morning sex, then rolls out of bed and staggers toward the kitchen, lured by the siren scent of coffee and thinking of pancakes, crispy turkey bacon, eggs benedict, and cinnamon rolls.

Brad’s stirring something at the stove as Ray walks blindly toward the pot of miracle juice sitting on the counter. By the time he has poured a giant mug and doctored it, Brad’s seated at the kitchen table, starring at the bowl in front of him.

“Homes, what is this mess?” The words burst out of Ray’s mouth when he gets a good look at the bowls of goop Brad has prepared.

“It’s oatmeal, Person. Drown it in milk and dose it with sugar, the way you do your coffee, and you’ll never notice.”

“Have I pissed you off? What have I done to deserve being fed glue? If you must feed me oatmeal, it should be in the shape of cookies, with cranberries and dark chocolate chips. This might be cruel and inhuman punishment.”

“You followed me home and refused to leave, even when I changed the locks. And the doctor says more fiber, no more bacon or sausage, not even the “healthy” turkey crap. If I have to suffer, you do too.”

“Bradley, you know your life was a dull and dark place until Ray-Ray appeared, bringing sparkles and rainbows. If not for me, you’d spend your free time riding waves, talking to your bike like it’s a woman, and surfing for sad internet porn.” Then he heaves a huge sigh, screws up his face, and shoves a huge spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brad and Walt are deployed while Ray's at home finishing his general ed requirements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two images that are important to this fic but I can't figure out how to embed them. Links are included in the text.

~~~

As far as Walt’s concerned, having Photographer around now is little different from having Rolling Stone in the Humvee back in 2003. Or so he thinks until Ray’s email arrives.

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
Re: Your future in modeling  
Walt, Walt, Walt! One of the dumbass civilians in my Intro to Photography class (the class is populated by idjits) brought in this link to a photojournalist’s work in Afghanistan. Imagine my surprise when I see a profile I recognize. It was the back view of a half naked Marine -- you little exhibitionist! I didn’t know you had it in your little hick heart to tease dozens of horny coeds. You’ll be swimming in trim when you get back!

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: BradleyColbert@gmail.com  
Re: Didja see this?  
Check it out! Our boy has become an internet sensation!

From: BradleyColbert@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: re: Didja see this?  
While I appreciate that your daily emails are indicative of some sort of affection, rather like an enthusiastic puppy in need of training, and are the civilian equivalent of a Ripped Fueled-rant with doses of porn and political diatribes, please don’t mail me photos of your hick BFF.

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: BradColbert@gmail.com  
Re: re: re: Didja see this?  
And I’m wondering why there’s no similar photo of you. Because forget Walt and the college coeds, your ink would do it for some people in that class.

From: WalterHasser@gmailc.om  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: There is no future in modeling  
Intro to Photography? Seriously, Ray? Are you so retarded by your sister-fucking, cow-tipping youth that someone has to explain the concept of point and shoot to you? It’s not all that different from a gun, as I understand it, and you seemed to have gotten that down pretty well. Does the fact that bullets don’t come out of the camera cause you confusion?

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
Re: It’s a conspiracy  
I told you, Walter, it counts as an art class, which is a general education requirement. Unlike Uncle Sam, who just wanted this Marine to be a lean, mean, fighting machine, the University of California Regents’ goal is to shape a well-rounded individual capable of appreciating the classical liberal arts even as the pursue excellence (and cold hard cash) in the hard sciences. Or some such bullshit.

Taking pictures is easy, but it turns out that taking good photographs and developing them properly is not. Who knew?

Also, I may have let it slip that I know people in that series about Afghanistan in which the photographer was clearly wanking over your musculature. How do you feel about internet dating? Or just sex online? Three women in the class have asked for your email address.

From: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: There is no conspiracy, you need to lay off the caffeine, retard.  
Ray, I swear to god that if you give out my email address to random women, you’ll come home from class one day and find your bootlegs of Pearl Jam and U2 mysteriously erased.

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: BradColbert@gmail.com  
Re: Ungrateful bastard  
Look at this shit! Here I am trying to get Walt laid, even if it is cybersex, and all the thanks I get is a pansy-assed threat!

From: BradColbert@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: re: Ungrateful bastard  
Despite looking like an innocent school boy, Walt is perfectly capable of getting himself laid, Person. In fact, that school boy look helps. Have you forgotten libo in Melbourne? Unlike some scrawny trailer park rejects whose sex life must be arranged by his TL.

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: BradColbert@gmail.com  
Re: re: re: Ungrateful bastard  
Don’t go there, Iceman. We both know you’d never have made a move if I hadn’t so subtly propositioned you after dive drills.

From: BradColbert@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: re: re: re: Ungrateful bastard  
You need to double check the definition of subtle, Person. I’m losing faith in your vaunted rhetorical skills and vocabulary. Dropping a hand in my lap as we’re leaving base and announcing that you can hold your breath for four minutes is in no way subtle.

From: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
To: BradColbert@gmail.com; Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: TMI  
Did you mean to cc me on that last exchange?  
***

Apparently there is a way to silence Ray Person. Who knew? Although now that his inbox isn’t being spammed with links to porn and pic-spams and random ridiculousness, Walt feels a little…abandoned. A week goes by before communication resumes.  
***

 

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
Re: the grapevine  
Okay, Walter, since you aren’t interested in any of the chicks I can flip your way, and I’m pretty sure you’re not into dick, I’ll leave off the potential hook ups. There’s not too much else going on, everyone is either deployed or hiding from me (it hurts my feelings, yo). The LT was out this way for a conference last week; it’s still weird to see him in civilian clothes, and even weirder to see REMFs suck up to him since when he was still in uniform they ignored every sensible thing that came out of his too pretty mouth. The Colberts are planning a big barbeque for Brad’s return. You’re invited, don’t forget to RSVP – Anna’s a stickler for manners. I think Lilley may have taken Espera’s joke about gay porn a little too seriously and tried shooting some amateur porn in his apartment. Either that or his taste in music has suddenly run to riffs on bow-chicka-bow-wow porn music. Which might actually be a step up from that rah-rah shit he had on the radio in his car last time I saw him.

From: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: re: the grapevine  
Count me in for the bbq. I’m planning on eating all the deviled eggs Mrs. C can make. And Mr. C’s smoked ribs.

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
Re: re: re: the grapevine  
Once again my feelings are crushed. Those deviled eggs were made using Momma Person’s Secret Recipe by yours truly. I’ll be happy to make a special batch just for you, asshole, with a super secret ingredient.

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
Re: Photography 101  
This taking and developing good photographs is harder than I anticipated. We had to do a self-portrait.

Unable to embed, PHOTO HERE: https://jmc-bks.livejournal.com/photo/album/374/?mode=view&id=68288

From: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: re: Photography 101  
You look like a wounded puppy. Did someone take away your favorite chew toy?

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
Re: screw you  
STFU, Walt! The instructor loved that shit! Got an A! The photos that showed my inner badass were “too hard edged” and didn’t “comply with the ethos of the assignment”. Whatever the hell that means. Of course, they were hard edged. I’m a Recon Marine and I will fuck your (his) shit up!

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: BradColbert@gmail.com  
Re: Your favorite thing  
Another assignment: still life but not the usual tired bowl of fruit. Thus you get a photo of your favorite thing.

Unable to embed, PHOTO HERE: https://jmc-bks.livejournal.com/photo/album/374/?mode=view&id=67928

 

From: BradColbert@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: My favorite thing  
What’s my favorite thing doing out from under her tarp in the garage?

From: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
To: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
Re: Hi?  
Brad has been in a bitchy mood all week. What did you do?

From: Yourpalrayray@gmail.com  
To: WalterHasser@gmail.com  
Re: re: hi?  
What did I do? Fuck all of y’all. Like humping 150 pounds of gear around Marjan on a futile mission that will be abandoned eventually when the administration changes or the American Treasury runs out of money isn’t enough to piss any normal human being off. If he’s bitchy it’s his own damn fault. And some people are too fucking OCD and possessive for their own damn good.


	11. entirely too organized

Brad's garage is organized to the nth degree. Tools in their places on the rack or in the chest. Boards stacked. Motorcycle standing, truck parked. On the shelves in the corner are rubber bins with various supplies -- yard stuff, climbing gear, spare parts, camping equipment – all carefully separated by usage. The bottom shelf houses a collection of suitcases and bags. There are several khaki rucksacks, battered and worn. The black Samsonite hard-sided case looks as if it has traveled around the world and back again: scarred, scratched, and plastered with stickers bearing questionable slogans. An old fashioned trunk sits next to the shelves, buckles shiny from a recent polish. There's a small space on the shelf where a bag is missing. The space gapes like a missing tooth and catches Brad's eye every time he comes into the garage. 

_Ray needs to haul his scrawny carcass back soon from that livestock-loving backwater he fondly calls home_ , Brad thinks for the thousandth time in the last week.


	12. Momma knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momma Person in Oceanside

Brad’s lounging on the couch, dozing, relaxing after the exertion of early morning surfing, enjoying the relative peace of the quiet house, when the doorbell rings. He ignores it, because it’s just Ray being a pain in the ass; he can let himself in the front door, Brad’s not getting up. A minute later the doorbell rings again, followed by a firm knock. Brad heaves himself off the couch, bitching all the way to the front door.

“Person, you lazy, ignorant hick, use your damn key. It’s the little metal thing attached to the chain you wear hooked to your baggy-ass jeans as some sort of whiskey tango fashion statement, pulling them down and blinding poor innocent bystanders with the white of your pathetic buttocks. What’s the point of the chain if you don’t fucking use it…”

Brad yanks the door open and then stops speaking. There’s a middle aged lady on the front porch, hand raised toward the door knocker.

“I’m afraid I left my baggy-ass jeans in Nevada, Sergeant, and I’ve never had a key to this door.”

Shit. Brad recognizes that voice from messages left on the answering machine and brief conversations as he passes the phone to Ray. And taking a closer look, he recognizes the brown eyes; he guesses there’s a dimple hiding, too. Fuck, it’s Momma Person. Not making a good first impression here.

“Uh, Mrs. Person, ma’am, I’m sorry, I thought that was – “

“My lazy, ignorant hick of a son, I believe.”

“Please come in. Let me take that.” Brad grabs the suitcase sitting at Mrs. Person’s feet. “Come in and have a seat. Can I get you a drink? Ray didn’t mention you were visiting.”

He’s babbling. He hears himself but can’t seem to stop it. Deep breath, Colbert, you’ve faced more dangerous things.

Mrs. Person is standing in the living room, examining the contents of the entertainment center (fortunately there’s no porn visible) and Brad’s in the kitchen pouring her some of Ray’s (sickly) sweet tea when the front door bangs open.

“Jesus fuck, Colbert, you’d think it was free sample day at the local whorehouse, it was so crowded at Target. Next time we run out of various sundries and important shit, you’re going. I don’t care how much you bitch about bourgeois big box stores or parking lot idiocy. And you owe me the sloppiest blow job ever – “ 

His voice trails off for a moment and when he speaks again, he sounds as surprised as Brad feels.

“Uh, hi, Mom. Welcome to Oceanside?”

*****

Louisa McLean Person is nobody's fool. She didn't drag herself out to the hippy dippy left coast for her own health. No, she knows weaseling when she hears it, and whenever she asks Ray about his future plans and when he'll be coming back to Nevada, he wiggles like a worm trying to get off a hook. When he first got out of the Marines and got his brains back (as he joked, and she privately agreed although she was smart enough not to say so), she argued for one of Missouri's fine higher education institutions, or even Vanderbilt. But no, he stayed in crunchy granola land to be near his brothers. Brothers, hah, there had to be a woman involved. 

She's heard all about Sergeant Bradley Colbert, to the point where she thought he could not possibly be real. No one was that smart or cool under pressure or perfect. And she knew Josh Ray had what macho types call a man-crush on him -- it was clear when he talked about his Sergeant that he admired him to a ridiculous degree. And she'd thought it was sweet of that Colbert to take Ray on as a roommate/house-sitter while he was on tour and Ray was in school.

Now that she's in Oceanside, she realizes there wasn't really any charity or sweetness involved. (Okay, so the blonde she was expecting turned out to be a blond. But she *knew* it -- hah!) It isn't nice of her, but she lets both of them stutter out incoherent explanations about Ray's lewd comment about oral sex, and again when Ray takes her bag to what is obviously a spare room-turned-office with a narrow single bed that is clearly not used by either of them. 

She isn't disgusted or shocked, although her feelings are a little hurt that Josh Ray didn't trust her with this. She’s surprised but mostly it's because Ray has only ever seemed interested in girls before. Of course, Colbert is ridiculously pretty in a tall, imposing, Viking warrior kind of way. Not what she'd have thought Ray's type might be, assuming she would ever have contemplated anything other than a heteronormative lifestyle for him, but she could see the attraction.

*****

Ray's got a break between the end of term and the start of his internship; the timing worked out well with Brad's return from Afghanistan. Brad's got light duty right now, paperwork mostly, while everyone's on leave after their last tour. Normally, they would be spending all their time surfing or playing on the kick ass gaming system in the living room or just being. 

But Momma Person -- Mrs. Person, ma'am, Brad addresses her, he can't help it -- has been staying with them for almost a week. They'd spoken on the phone before in passing, but this is her first visit to California; probably it would have waited a while longer, if left to Ray and him, but she took the initiative. She's been making noises about Ray coming home to Missouri, Ray had mentioned in an email while he was in Kandahar. But Ray is already home. And he's not going back to Missouri. Ever. Well, maybe for visits, but Brad's pretty sure he's stuck with the depraved midget in perpetuity and he's pretty comfortable with that.

They've had dinner with Brad's parents. (That the Colberts knew about Brad and Ray and clearly had known for a while did not go over well with Mrs. Person, Brad could tell.) They've gone to the San Diego Zoo. And wandered around the tourist trap of Old Town. And they drove up to LA for a day so Mrs. Person can tell the ladies she works with at the Board of Education that she's seen the Hollywood sign in person. 

Sometimes Brad can feel her gaze on him, dead center between his shoulders, weighing him and his role in Ray’s life. It's unnerving. It's not quite as bad as feeling like his cover has been blown in the field -- he's pretty sure she won't execute him without a fair trial...unless he hurts Ray, then all bets are off. But still, the hair on his neck stands up, and it's not because of a literal chill. 

Today they planned a lazy day before she heads home tomorrow, but it is interrupted by the emergency arrival of his nephew, Jake. Brad's not entirely certain what the emergency his sister babbles about is, but he's not going to ask for fear of learning entirely too much about whatever drama is going on with her and her asshole almost-ex. Anyway, a bored four year old and a skeptical Momma Person, how to entertain them both? The beach is always the answer as far as Brad is concerned: sand, sun, waves. Brad loads the beach crap necessary for a child (umbrella, towels, toys, enough stuff to keep him occupied for hours) into the Jeep along with the car seat. Ray is supposed to pack lunch for them, but somehow Momma Person ends up doing it while Ray watches Spongebob with Jake.

Once they get to the beach, they set up a home base with the umbrella and blankets, and they play in the sand and the shallows for a while, which is just unnatural. There are beautiful waves out beyond the breakers, all going to waste. Ray takes pity on Brad's jittery state and tells him to grab his board and go, so Brad does, paddling out toward the horizon until Ray, Jake and Mrs. Person are specks in the distance.

An hour later, the tension in his neck has unwound and he's ready to be sociable again. Riding one last wave toward shore, Brad is distracted by the sight of Ray splashing through the shallows, chasing Jake, and Jake laughing his head off as he's swept up into the air and then dangled threateningly over deeper water.

"Thank gravity you're back, Iceman! Iceboy Junior here is wearing me out. Your turn." After turning Jake over to Brad, he collapses onto the blanket, making sure not to drip water or spray sand on Momma Person. Who just rolls her eyes (that's where Ray picked up that habit!) and keeps reading her romance novel, periodically looking out to the ocean or over at Ray.

So Brad gets busy constructing a labyrinth of sand for them to let hermit crabs or other beach creatures race through. (Yeah, no, that'll never happen, but Jake likes the idea so STFU.) It's a complex process requiring just the right amount of water mixed with the sand and careful planning, followed by meticulous execution. It keeps Brad and Jake occupied for most of the afternoon.

After a recuperative cat nap, Ray is enlisted to act as quartermaster in charge of procuring appropriate shells and rocks for the structure, while Momma Person gives architectural advice. After a water recon mission disguised as a splashing session, Ray drops a bucket of sand by Brad then disappears for a while. When he returns, it's with three cherry popsicles and a chipwich in hand.

Somehow Jake manages to eat his popsicle more neatly than Ray, which is a sad commentary about Person's eating habits. He's a mess -- worse than his ravioli face or his milkshake mouth back in Iraq. 

"Josh Ray Person, where did you learn to eat popsicles like that? It's lewd and inappropriate in public. And you've got red all over your face -- you'd think I never taught you any manners. Wipe your face before I wipe it for you -- you may be a Marine, but you're never too old for spit on a hanky wielded by your mother. Even Jake's neater than you -- you're a disaster area."

Brad bites his tongue and takes a wet wipe out to clean Jake up so they can go back to their sand sculpture. He likes Ray's lewd popsicle consumption skills but won't say so in front of Momma Person. While he’s impatient for DADT to be repealed on the professional front, it’s a viable policy in some personal areas and this is one of them.

****

For her entire visit, they dance around any discussion of Josh Ray’s relationship with his “roommate”, who seems like a nice young man, if a little reserved. Clearly Colbert is not intimidated by Ray’s intelligence or his ability to talk the ears off a donkey, given the way he mouths right back to Ray. And although they are careful about any sort of PDA front of her, she appreciates their compatibility: at the outset and end of their morning runs, she can see their strides and breathing in sync; they appear to communicate almost telepathically about things; they seem gravitationally disposed toward being within reach of each other; and they move in tandem when doing the most mundane tasks, like cooking breakfast or getting ready to grill dinner on the patio. 

Finally, as she gets out of Brad’s Jeep at San Diego International Airport, Momma Person takes the bull by the horns. After hugging Josh Ray and telling him to behave, or to at least try, she ignores Brad’s “have a safe trip, ma’am” and his outstretched hand, pulling him into a bear hug instead. 

“Bradley, Ray has to come home for Christmas. And I know it’s not your holiday, but I expect you to come along too. We’ll put a dreidel on your stocking. You need to meet my mother, Grandma Arlene. She passes judgment on all of the spouses and significant others in the family.” At that point, Brad stiffens and starts to choke and sputter, but she keeps going. “She won’t approve of you; it’s a given. You can’t help it, though, because you’re not a Missourian; it’s a fundamental defect in her mind, kind of like being born color blind or tone deaf. But it still has to be done. And you’re charming enough and pretty enough that she’ll forgive you for being born in California sooner or later. 

“Also, you’ll have to make an honest man of Josh Ray eventually. Maybe once you’re out of the Marines or when Congress finally stops being dumber than a box of rocks about gay cooties in the military. I expect grandbabies eventually, legitimate ones, and Ray being bisexual or gay or a rock star – ” she snorts at the word “ -- doesn’t let him off the hook.”

With a squeeze and a kiss to his cheek, she lets go of Brad and heads toward the sliding doors with her bag in hand. With one last grin and blown kiss to Ray, she’s gone, but not before she hears Ray say, “So, homes, about Christmas…”


	13. In the kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic fluff as Brad returns from deployment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an image important to this fic, but I couldn't figure out how to embed it. Link included at the place where relevant.

Sometimes Brad’s not entirely sure how they got there, the magnets on the fridge. For years, there were only two plain, flat magnets disturbing the clean metallic appliance: one from the base Health Services printed with a list of emergency numbers, and one from his insurance agent with another list of emergency numbers. They occasionally held reminders in place, or maybe a bill that needed to be mailed. 

But now there are a bunch of little ones filled with words to meant compose poetry (but used primarily to create dirty limericks and leave obscene messages); one shaped like a crab with legs on springs that skitter when you touch them, proclaiming a visit to the Outer Banks; plain, round, colored magnets; magnets shaped like flip-flops, beer bottles, lighthouses, cars, lips, breasts, animals; others announcing visits to Las Vegas, Hawaii, Texas, Australia, Spain, Germany, Japan, the Philippines; and the ubiquitous Fisher Price Play Skool alphabet. Add to that a mass of Post-Its, photos of family and friends, torn envelopes with grocery lists and errand reminders, and magnetic clips holding more crap than any refrigerator front should be burdened with. 

It works pretty well as a message board, too, when Ray’s school and work schedules are at odds with Brad’s duty schedule. (“When I’m mercifully free of your inane babble about 80s hair bands and their spandex and eyeliner being the root cause of global instability, you fucking hick.” “Bradley, don’t talk shit like that about your Ray-Ray; we both know your only music taste is in your mouth, and that your days without me are as dry and barren as the Mojave.” “Shut the fuck up, Ray.” “Make me.” And he usually does, to both their satisfaction.)

__

_Buy + Coffee magnets are accompanied by “greedy” written on a Post-It in Brad’s block letters, and then a second Post-It that reads “Done, lazy bones.”_

_Dinner + Mom + Saturday again, with Play Skool letters O+K following._

_Need + ice+ love + kisses, with a large Post-It underneath reading “Say what you mean, Person. Kisses or to be fucked senseless? I can do both and I’ll be home by 12pm tomorrow. Make up your mind by then.”_

Then in letters: GOT ORDERS.

***

 

_Docked. Home by 2pm._

He likes to ease back into civilian life. Not for him the huge family crush as the carrier returns to port. One heads-up to Ray and a mass text to everyone else who matters, everyone he will see in the next 48 hours, and then he applies himself to getting his Marines organized and off base before hitching his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the truck parked in the lot, left there the day or night before so he can drive himself home.

The mess on the fridge is the first thing he sees as he comes through the garage door into the kitchen, and he smiles.

Or maybe it’s the sight of the man leaning against the counter, waiting for him, that makes Brad smile. Dark hair, square chin, mouth trying to stay serious but lopsided dimples peeking out. His white v-neck t-shirt shows teasing bits of the No Dice tattoo and the way his hands are tucked into the pockets of his low-slung jeans makes his arms flex, showing off the ink on his arms. 

Brad leans over to place his duffel by the back door, and before he fully straightens, a wiry body hurtles into his and he’s rocked backward. Staggering a few steps and getting a good grip on the body wrapped around his, Brad pushes Ray’s back against the nearest vertical surface; he hears a clatter of metal and plastic bits hitting the tiles of the kitchen floor but can’t be arsed to look, not right now. There’s a strong chin to bite at and then a mouth to cover with his own, and why are there so many clothes?

Brad pulls back to look at Ray and he can feel his face stretch into a grin. And he means to say so many things. Hey. Hello. Missed you. You look good. You look skinnier than when I left, have you been taking care of yourself? Missed you. Tell me how things were. Tell me all the things you couldn’t say on Skype. Let me tell you all the things I stored up to share. You look so good. All that comes out is a strangled, “Ray.”

Ray rears up to plant his mouth on Brad’s, humming in response to Brad’s attempt to speak. At the same time, Brad feels Ray hook one leg between his, gaining leverage to maneuver them into switching places. He ends up with his back to the fridge and Ray mouthing at the junction of his jaw and neck, their hips grinding against each other, rapidly hardening cocks rubbing together through layers of uniform and civilian clothes.

Whatever homecoming Brad expected – and he has notoriously low expectations based on his history even though he knows that Ray would never let him down that way – it isn’t this. This frantic need to feel and taste and have right now. But he’s suddenly frenzied; he needs to touch bare skin and see the blue-black ink decorating Ray’s arms and chest. Two sets of hands fumble with the buttons and zips of jeans and BDUs, tugging and yanking at his uniform blouse and Ray’s t-shirt until they’ve got access, and then with almost synchronized groans they’ve got hands on flesh. He can feel Ray’s abs and the slightly coarse trail of hair that runs down his abdomen, follows it until – yes, there he is, hot and smooth and hard in Brad’s hand, and oh, god. Ray’s got one hand gripping the back of his head, keeping Brad’s mouth exactly where he wants it, so he can suck on Brad’s tongue, and the other hand is wrapped around Brad’s dick, stroking in the same rhythm as his mouth. He can’t -- he can’t breathe, he can barely manage to keep any consistent movement on Ray’s dick, he just wants to fuck Ray’s hand and his mouth, and fuck, still mostly-clothed and leaning against a kitchen appliance is not how he planned their first post-deployment orgasms, except this is better than anything he’d planned because it’s real.

With what might have been a grunted down, Ray maneuvers them to the floor. Brad has a moment to be startled by the cool of the tiles and then Ray’s straddling him, bracing one arm by Brad’s head and taking them both in hand. The stroke of his hand, the way Ray’s dick feels rubbing against him as he moves his hips, all of it is so good, better than he remembers, better than anything he imagined when he had the time and privacy for a combat jack. The sting when Ray leans down and bites his nipple hard is the last little bit of sensation, too much, it’s all he needs, and Brad’s coming, blind and deaf to everything, even to Ray coming on his belly and then collapsing in a boneless heap next to him.

He’s still seeing stars behind his closed eyelids when Ray announces, “Christ, Colbert, you’ve killed me, you and that damn Eiffel Tower magnet Fruity Rudy sent. I’m stabbed. Welcome home, dammit.”

Still breathing hard but laughing too now, Brad rolls over and slings an arm across Ray’s chest, “There’s no blood on the floor, Person, you can’t be stabbed. Which is just as well, because I’d have to let your scrawny whiskey tango ass bleed to death this evening – Mom is expecting us at five, so get your boney carcass up off the floor.”

“My tender heart is shattered, Iceman! Vital organs could be punctured and I could suffer from some tragic disability due to an unfortunate encounter with a cheap souvenir, and all you can say is get my ass up? Where has all the magic gone? The lack of romance is tragic.”

Ray probably could keep going but Brad distracts him by getting to his feet and stripping off the remains of his uniform. He heads toward the bedroom, leaving Ray to admire to Post-It stuck to his ass as he moves into the hallway. 

***

 

Brad’s welcome home dinners used to follow a very specific pattern, from the menu to the guests to the pleasant but superficial conversation. Caesar salad, prime rib or brisket, baked potatoes, asparagus with citrus butter, and home-made apple brown betty made the menu, all dishes he’d enjoyed as a teenager during breaks from military school. Jenna and Steve would attend, and his parents liked them well enough, but somehow the interaction was always awkward and stilted, as if their lives had nothing in common while Brad was deployed. (Turns out that was true. Hindsight really is 20/20 sometimes.)

Some parts of the evening have changed, like the 7-Up cake that his mother makes now, because it’s Ray’s favorite. And tonight they’re not just celebrating Brad’s return but Ray making the Dean’s List again and getting an internship with General Electric. 

Over coffee and cake, Brad listens to his father and Ray debate the role of the federal government in education. For years, his father has held firmly to the idea that the education is a state function the federal government should have no part in, financially or standards-wise, but somehow Ray’s gotten him to agree that the consistent, nationwide, minimum standards of learning are necessary. Brad’s been listening all evening, but he’s not entirely certain how Ray managed to back his father into that position. Before Ray can get Pop to concede that requiring that the states provide education without providing any financial assistance is both an unfunded mandate and a bad idea practically, his mom interrupts, sending Ray to the kitchen to rinse plates and load the dishwasher and Brad to take out the trash. Probably a good idea; his dad would regret two big concessions in one evening, no matter how much he likes Ray and his appreciation of the train set in the basement.

It’s genius. It’s fucking frightening. Because if Ray set his mind to it, he could probably convince people that black is white and up is down. Brad counts himself lucky that so far Ray has used his rhetorical skills primarily to entertain and befuddle their circle of family and friends, rather than setting out on a course of world domination. He’s fairly certain that if worldwide domination became Ray’s professional goal, he’d succeed. And that he’d be sucked into that adventure at Ray’s side for better or worse. Frankly, the USMC’s current attempts to support America’s seeming goal of military hegemony is enough, thanks.

Coming in from dropping the evening’s scrapings in the compost heap in the corner of the garden, Brad props himself against the counter next to Ray. Before he has a chance to do much more than grin and comment about his parents’ naked fridge, he hears, “Bradley, leave Ray alone. You’re leaning. I know what that means. If you let him finish in the kitchen, you’ll be able to get home and get naked faster. Come here.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Brad can only shake his head and return to the living room, where he’s held hostage by maternal urges until Ray announces with a wink that it’s past his bed time and he needs a ride home.

***

 

Ray collapses face down into the pillows shoved up against the headboard with a muttered best welcome home sex ever, before lapsing into unconsciousness. Brad snorts, or tries to through his elevated breathing, then dozes off, resurfacing as the glow of the rising sun starts to bleed into the room. Time to surf.

But first, coffee. 

As he waits for the pot to fill, Brad examines the mess on the fridge and realizes that a few pieces haven’t moved since he left last summer. He’s somewhat surprised they managed to remain in place through yesterday afternoon’s welcome home; most of the fridge’s decorations are seriously disarranged or damaged, including the poor crab from North Carolina whose spring-loaded legs are crushed, victims of Brad and Ray’s combined body weight crashing into it.

_Stay safe._

_Home soon._

 

He rolls his eyes, then bends over the note pad on the counter to write a haiku to the glory of Coffea canefora. A couple minutes and a few strokes of the pen later, he’s in the truck with his wetsuit and short board, on his way to ride waves.

Three hours later, the last lingering tension in his neck and shoulders is gone. He’s home; the morning started right with sex and coffee and surfing; nothing else is planned or needed, he can just take what comes until it’s time to head back to base in a few days. He’s heading toward the sound of the running shower when he catches sight of Ray’s modification of his haiku:

UNABLE TO EMBED, image at https://jmc-bks.livejournal.com/photo/album/374/?mode=view&id=67769

Brad snorts, then sheds his board shorts on the way to the bathroom. Home plus coffee plus surfing plus more sex on the horizon…best morning ever.


End file.
